Nine Years Ago
by sarapals with past50
Summary: What happens to get Sara to move to Vegas? Our fluff of fun when she meets Grissom and how they get to know one another--over time.
1. Chapter 1

**Nine Years Ago**

** Chapter 1**

The tall slim brunette leaned her shoulder against the wall, holding a foot square white paper with a name on it. Definitely, she had gotten the short straw and this time, it wasn't a winner. Her friend and co-worker had selected the guy from the body farm. That was pretty cool. Another got the best-selling author. Three days to drive them around to different events, eat with them, hearing what either one had to say would be---interesting. They had also gotten the biggest cars to use. 

She got stuck with the bug man. Ugh---she hated bugs. Just the thought made her skin crawl. Ha! That was almost funny. She clicked the list in her brain. An hour to the conference center, if traffic was good; that should be a real fun drive. Maybe he would sleep. Then the opening speaker and dinner tonight. She did not technically eat with him. The "hosts" had their own table. Secretly, they called themselves "escorts" and laughed. Second day, breakfast, meetings, a round-table discussion, a free afternoon, and the big dinner party scheduled at a local winery. Third day, early meetings, then back to the airport. She got to attend everything for free for acting as host to an invited speaker---just so her bug man got where he needed to be. 

There would not be much one-on-one, she thought. Lots of people knew the guy, so he would stay busy. Bugs, gross. She couldn't believe she pulled his name. 

She stood straighter as a crowd descended the escalator. She held her sign above her head. Didn't want to miss him and have to have him paged. 

She saw him lift his hand as a signal, then came towards her with hand outstretched. "Grissom." He said. "Gil Grissom. You must be my host?" 

She shook his hand. "Yes, Sara Sidle." She smiled. "I'll be your driver, your tour director or whatever else you should need." She smiled ever brighter, her tone matching. She would be the best "host" this old bug guy ever had. "Luggage is this way." 

They headed toward luggage pick-up. She easily matched his stride, he found his luggage; then they found the car. She checked him out as they walked to the car. Over forty, not slim, but not overweight either. Curling hair. Dark jacket and pants, blue shirt. She realized his blue shirt matched his eyes. He smiled easily, making comments about the weather, how much he appreciated the conference providing transportation. 

As she drove from the airport, he asked if she would like to eat. "Some place near the water. We don't have much coastline in Vegas." He spoke as easily as he smiled. "I left after work and I don't remember eating since yesterday." 

"You work grave?" Sara asked, surprised that someone his age would still be on what most regarded as the shift for newbie's, or those who did not progress up the promotion ladder. 

"I do." He replied. "Actually, I like that shift. Vegas never sleeps." He laughed at his own comment.

She turned onto a side road, saying "I work grave here." 

"Do you? Night person, then. Police or forensics?" 

When she responded with forensics, he asked several questions about her supervisor, about equipment they used, how work was divided. Clearly interested in how things worked. He did not mention bugs, so maybe this wasn't going to be so bad. 

Sara found the little oceanside café hidden from tourists but a favorite with locals. Its looks belied the good food. After ordering at the take-out window, they found an outside table. He pulled the chair out for her which she noticed. 

They found it easy to talk about the food, then work. She found him interesting, asking questions, waiting for her to answer. He reminded her of good teachers she had known, not a bug man. He had not talked about bugs--- yet.

The drive to the conference center passed quickly. He talked. She answered. She turned left after the bridge to let him see the city. She thought he should see how the city looked from a distance. 

When they arrived at the conference center, her two co-workers were already there and hanging around the front door. She knew they were checking out her bug man. She smiled—her bug man! He was going to be ok. Not a word about bugs. 

The three young people compared notes. Sara decided she might have gotten the best one. The author talked--into a small tape recorder during the entire drive from the airport. The body farm guy claimed jet lag (flying the wrong way for jet lag) and slept all the way. Sara got to brag that her bug man had not only wanted to eat, but talked to her about her work. She realized that she had done most of the talking spurred by his questions. Interesting man. 

Grissom enjoyed these conferences. Hearing what others had to say, how others were working, meeting people with similar interests could keep him sleepless for days. He slept long enough on the plane to keep him going until late tonight. 

His biggest surprise was the young woman waiting for him, not your typical California girl from the movies. She was smart, articulate, serious. They had not stopped talking, especially when he learned she also worked in forensics and at night. Her uplifting tone was easy to hear; her voice steady and she faced him when she spoke. Unlike so many women, especially young women, she answered questions directly, and with a little encouragement, she would elaborate. 

Sara Sidle, his 'host' for the conference. Other than drive, he wasn't sure what she was supposed to do. She did grab his bag from the luggage carousal which he quickly took from her. He would not have a slim, slip of a girl hauling his bag around. He wasn't that old.

And her smile. He could not remember another smile like hers. He could not remember thinking about a smile like hers in years. She smiled easily and it spread across her face like an opening flower. He knew that smile could have dangerous consequences. He was old enough to know that!

She left him at the front door. Turning, he saw her give her friends a two-thumbs up signal. He smiled, knowing some silent game signal had passed between them. 

Later, during the opening speaker and dinner, he found her at a table with the same group, talking and laughing as women do, unaware they were observed. Afterwards, she made her way to his table near the front, waiting for him to finish his conversation. 

"I wanted to check with you—anything you need?" She asked. 

"No, nothing. What are you doing? Would you like to join some of us?" he said, "We're moving outside. It's work talk." Then he restated his comments. "Only if you have nothing else. We could use a young voice." 

It took her three seconds to decide. 

As in the break-up of any large group, some headed out the door, others moved around tables to meet with old friends or make new ones, and quickly a large number moved outside, finding a place or a chair while introducing themselves or each other. Everyone had a story to tell, a solution sought, a question to ask. Sara found a place near the edge of the group, but near enough so she could hear Gil Grissom. Conversation gradually moved the crowd into smaller and smaller groups as topics popped up and those interested shifted space to talk and compare experiences. 

Sara followed the bug man—after all, he had invited her to join. And while she wasn't intimidated as the lone female, she listened rather than venture into discussions. The group discussed using technology in establishing evidence, presenting understandable information to judge and jury. Their talk turned to serial killers and efforts to use technology to track backwards to find their victims. 

Forgetting she was the only female and the youngest person in the group, she spoke, "Technology development is going to change what is presented; juries will demand it." She leaned forward to continue. "However, we must remember cases like Ted Bundy. Stopped for a broken tail light, held on a fingerprint, and convicted based on bite marks on a victim. How much is technology and how much is skillfully gathering hard evidence? Neither can stand up without the other." 

Grissom was not the only one to notice her quiet steady voice. 

A man from Florida immediately continued her Ted Bundy thread; nearly a decade after being put to death and law enforcement officials never tired of discussing his nationwide killing spree. Sara talked about DNA profiling and clearly knew how to discuss the complicated techniques in development. 

Finally, a man stood, yawning, and checking his watch, "It's after 1 AM. Since I'm a lead speaker at a breakfast meeting, I need to get some sleep! I expect to see all of you there." He laughed as he led the breakup of the last remaining group. "Young lady, you need to be there. We need your compassion, your questions—and your good looks to keep us on our toes!"

Another man closed in on her, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Miss Sidle, isn't it? Will Smithson, Denver PD. Any time you want to change jobs, let me know." He rocked closer to her face. 

She smoothly pulled from his grasp. "Thanks, I—I think I'll stay where I am." Still smiling she dropped her head and stepped back. Grissom quickly stepped forward, placing a hand on her elbow. 

The man from Denver laughed loudly, "Ok, Grissom, I see you want this smart filly in that Vegas stable! I should have known." He laughed and headed inside. 

Grissom dropped his hand. Sara stood beside him shaking her head. "I hate those guys. Why not just shake my hand? Why not ask me if I'd like to work in Denver? Is that so hard?"

It was Grissom's turn to laugh. Instead of trying to answer, he asked her, "Are you hungry? Let's find something to eat." 

Once inside, they found the kitchen had long closed for the night and the only place open with real food was a 24 hour diner a short drive away. 

She was the first to make a decision. "Come on. I'm your host! We can eat pie at 2 AM and see who else is up." 

He smiled at her enthusiasm. He could not remember the last time he did something spontaneous and this looked like a good time to start. 

They laughed and talked on the short drive. He told her stories about several of the conference participants from years past. Inside the diner, they both ordered apple pie which the waitress insisted that it would not be right to eat apple pie without ice cream. 

Sara asked questions about Grissom's topic at the conference, about his work, including how an entomologist got into forensics. "I'm not real fond of bugs," she added. 

He carefully picked one slice of apple from his pie. "See this apple." He held it on the end of his fork. "Without bugs—bees to be exact—we would have no pretty apples. Perfect apples result from pollination at least six times, or the apple is small, stunted and misshapen. It literally takes thousands of bees to make apples."

And as she ate the last of her pie, he explained how he started and continued to work in forensics, following a bug's life.

Later, she curled into bed, thinking this had been a good day. Her bug guy had ended up being very likeable, even nice. She still did not like bugs. 

Breakfast was a confusing, self-service affair. Tables loaded with all the typical breakfast foods, and people filling overflowing plates. Sara grabbed a muffin, an orange, and coffee, wondering what bug was responsible for making her orange perfect. Checking the program, she found the speaker she wanted to hear, but kept looking for her bug man. Dr. Grissom, she decided, she had to call him before she slipped and called him Bug Man. 

Instead, he found her. "Sara! Come with me. This guy is a terrific speaker—you will love his topic." 

She allowed herself to go with him. And it was interesting. Two FBI researchers presented AFIS information and plans to have a paperless system in place in the near future. The next session was a round-table discussion where Grissom was on the panel. She was certainly going to that one; after all she was his 'host'. 


	2. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **_This should be in Chapter 1. We own nothing except an alarm clock; none of these characters, especially not Sara Sidle or Gil Grissom. Thanks to CSI and CBS, we all know who they are!_

**Chapter 3**

The round table discussion session was crowded. Four other people, including the author, were presenting topics on anthropology ranging from entomology (Sara's bug man), to various pathologies and reconstruction. She managed to find a seat near the front and watched as the five speakers began to arrange the order of presentations. She saw his hands searching his jacket pockets, then his leather notebook. Twice. The third time his eyes found her and by some silent sense, she knew something was not right and before he motioned for her, she was walking toward the stage. 

"I've misplaced my power point," he whispered to her. "I thought I had it in my pocket." He checked his watch. "This thing is ready to start! I'm going to look like an idiot."

"No," she reached up, "Give me your room key. Stay here. I'll try to find it. Is it marked?"

"Yes, in a blue cover. Look on the desk." He handed her the key card. "I hate to ask you to do this." 

She smiled. "It's fine. I'm glad to help." She was gone. It took longer to walk to his room than it took to find the disk, right where he said it would be. She hurried back, finding the session was just beginning, and passed the disk to him. However, her seat was taken by some old guy, and she moved to the back of the room where the overflowing crowd gathered. 

Dr. Grissom's presentation included photographs of stages of life of flies, beetles, and other bugs found on decomposing flesh. Sara leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She could handle gunshots, stab wounds, blood, brains, body parts, just let them be free of bugs. 

His last remarks caused her to open her eyes. He was talking to her! "Those little maggots crawling all over dead bodies may be the most accurate tool in pinpointing time of death. Next time you see a fly, a beetle, a moth, remember that if those bugs and their flesh loving friends were not around, we would be up to our necks in dead bodies." 

She realized he had found her at the back of the room. Their eyes met and she smiled. She thought, "I could like this bug man." He returned her smile. 

Following the end of this session, and lunch that followed, Sara was separated from Grissom. She saw him leaving the room with several men. She remained behind, retrieved his disk from the computer, and realized she had kept his room keycard. 

The afternoon had no scheduled events; free time for golfing, or talking or whatever else the attendees found to do. Later, the keynote event for the evening was dinner at a winery for invited guests—not everyone, but she got to go as a host. She left the keycard at the front desk with a note telling him her room number suggesting she could drive him to the winery for dinner or, if he liked to walk, it was only a short distance following a path thru the vineyard.

Sara ate her lunch alone, sitting outside. Sometime, she had to remember to eat. She ate her sandwich and thought about her bug man. Interesting. In her mind she was calling him "her" bug man. He was much more interesting than her boss. 

Her two coworkers found her. "Hey, Sara. Come with us." 

"Hey, yourself. Where are you going?"

"Shopping, free afternoon." 

"What about your host duties? Where are your guys?" She asked.

They both laughed. "Taken care of until airport time tomorrow. Come on. Wasting time." 

"Go ahead. I'm staying here." 

"Party pooper. We're going to find something flashy for tonight. You can too. All these guys—we want to make an impression!" They giggled. 

"Go without me. I'm enjoying the sun." Sara remained in her chair. They waved as they headed out. She knew those two. They would be glitz and glamour tonight unless they found another party. She leaned her head back and the next thing she felt was a hand on her arm. She must have dosed. 

"Hi, Little Lady." A man's voice spoke, quietly and to near her face. "I've been looking for you." 

Her eyes flew open. Bending over her chair was the man from Denver, one hand resting on her arm, the other on the chair arm, capturing her between the chair and his belly, his face inches from her own. 

"Get out of my face," she whispered. 

His face backed away, but he did not move his arms. "Ok, Sweetie, ok. Let's have a drink. I'm a nice guy, really." 

"Now move your arms." Her voice was steady, not much above her whisper, but he backed off. 

"Ok, ok. I didn't mean to upset you." He took another step. "Really, just saw you alone. Thought you might enjoy a drink. Nothing else." 

Sara's gut feeling told her the guy was a sleaze. Her brain said he was a professional. She went with her gut. 

"You startled me." She said as she stood. "I must have dozed. No harm done." She glanced at her watch. "I'm actually waiting for someone." She lied easily. "Maybe I need to check on him." She gathered her lunch debris and fled. 

In her room, the message light flashed. Two messages. Her boss, nothing important. The second from her bug guy. She dialed his number. 

"Grissom," he answered. 

"Sara—Sara Sidle."

"Do you golf?" he asked. 

"No."

"Anything else?"

"I—I read." She wasn't sure where this was going. 

"Perfect answer! Meet me out front. Wait—do you have plans for this afternoon? I should have asked."

This was confusing. "No, I don't. I'll meet you in a few minutes." 

He was waiting outside when she arrived, smiling, wearing his sunglasses. Actually, he looked pretty good—for a bug guy. 

"Thanks for coming. I want to take a drive. You've got a car, so—it's not far." He unfolded a paper. "Have you ever been here?"

She looked at the paper. Jack London Park. "Years ago, I think I can find it." She pulled keys from her pocket. "Have you ever been?"

He shook his head. "No, until I saw this, I didn't realize we were so near. I read his books years ago." He lifted an eyebrow and gave a half smile to Sara. "Made me want to join the navy." 

They walked to the car. She offered the keys, but he shook his head. "I enjoy having a driver." He opened the car door for her. 

She made one stop—one of those roadside stores selling a little of everything. Road trip food, she said, as she collected drinks, snack bars, nuts, a couple of apples. She held the apples up for his approval. 

Grissom finally had to ask, "Where are we going to need all this?"

She laughed, saying, "Sometimes I forget to eat, so when I do eat, I eat a lot. There's enough for you too." 

Standing in line to checkout, he lifted a hat from a stack. "I think I need a hat." He placed one on his head. "How is this one?" She shook her head. He tried a second one. Another shake. The third one he pulled from underneath the stack. 

Sara laughed. "That's the hat! Perfect!"

"You think so?" He turned his head. "I could get lots of wear out of something like this."

He paid for the food and the hat. Sara kept glancing at him, finally breaking up in giggles. When he asked what was so funny, she kept laughing. She couldn't tell him it was the new hat. 

Two wrong turns and one "passed the right turn" later, they pulled into the parking lot. He had laughed at her wrong turns, telling her once that her right turn was "the other right." 

They took the short hike to see the house ruins. Sara found it easy to talk to him which surprised her. She usually found it easier not to talk; however, with Grissom, she found words came easy. He would look at her or say a word and she talked. 

For Grissom, he almost never got away from work and found the company of this young woman a welcome diversion. Not sure if she had been instructed to take care of him or if she was enjoying his company. Her humor and somewhat sarcastic wit made it easy to be with her. Walking beside her, he realized he was doing most of the talking. She was different. 

_A/N: We wrote this story to make things happy, mostly, so if you want angst, you will not find it here until later. Thanks for reading!_


	3. Chapter 4

An hour later they sat on stone steps and shared food she pulled from her bag. 

"Good idea," Grissom nodded toward his apple. 

"Food is always good. Well, most food," Sara agreed. She felt like she had known this man for months, instead of a short twenty-four hours. 

He finished the apple. "Can I ask a personal question?" He asked. 

She turned to face him. He was wearing his hat which made her want to giggle, yet he looked so serious. She thought that in this quiet place, she would answer any question he asked. "Sure."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-six." 

"Another personal question?" he arched that eyebrow and almost smiled. 

"Anything."

He moved his hand across his face. "I have a good team in Vegas. Is there anything keeping you here—in your job? I'd like to call you—about—about work."

Confusion clouded her face. "Sure, call me. But why? I—I don't have much experience. Lots of people work as consultants." 

She watched his hands move together, fingertips touching. He was not looking at her and took a full minute to form his words. "Do you think you could work with me? There are times I need an outside person. The lab is growing. I know I will need someone like you." He stopped again, then continued. 

"Some times it is not about experience. It's about new eyes. A new prospective. A different thought process. Determination. You have all of those." He stood up, holding out his hand. For the first time, she touched his hand as he pulled her up. 

In that second of time, actually much longer than a second, she knew something changed between them. That unspoken realization between male and female held their hands together for longer than it took her to stand. As quick as it happened, their hands parted, their eyes fell. 

Grissom was the first to recover his voice. "Jack London once wrote 'I would rather be ashes than dust. I would rather my spark burn out in a brilliant blaze than be stifled by dry-rot.' I'm pretty sure he wasn't talking about death, but work—life. You are the same way. Essentially practical. Enthusiastic, but no dreamer. That's who I'm looking for, not today, not tomorrow, but one day, I'll call you."

Sara did not know what to say. His voice was calm, yet, her gut made her feel something else was being said. 

"Sure," she replied, then added. "There is a lot I need to learn. You would be a good teacher."

"You think so?" He had asked a question but his response was a confirmation of what had already passed between them. 

Sara handed the keys to him. "You have a dinner in a couple of hours." 

He arrived at her door on time, sans hat, looking—what word could she use? Spiffy? Natty? More than that, what word? Elegant, it fit. She wasn't a clothes horse but she knew expensive. She knew what looked good on a man. 

Sara looked at her own clothes thinking 'underdressed' in her black pants and cream shirt. 

Grissom read her mind. "You look great." 

They walked to dinner. Grissom pointed out the roses planted along the boundary of the vineyard. "Bugs," he said. "They are attracted to the roses first." 

"Is there anything about bugs you don't know?" she asked. 

He laughed. "I've talked too much—no more bugs. I'm sorry." 

She had not meant for him to stop talking. "Talk about bugs. I'm fine." She smiled. "Do continue," she teased, "I'll pretend I like them." She could not believe she said that. 

Dinner was outside, a formal affair with waiters placing food in front of each person as quickly as the last morsel was gone and pouring wine before glasses were half empty. Talk centered on food or wine or work moving quickly from one to another, strangers connected by similar experiences. Grissom sat across the table from Sara, including her in conversation, pulling thoughts from her head and putting new ones in. At times, she realized he was watching her as she spoke. She was more subtle with her own eyes. 

Walking back to the conference center, he took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. She shivered, from the cool air she thought. He shrugged off his coat, placing it around her shoulders. She could not remember if anyone had ever offered her their coat. She knew she had never worn cashmere, even borrowed cashmere. 

"Thanks. I should have worn a coat." 

"I'm happy you don't have a coat." His voice smiled as he spoke. "It's not every day I can offer mine to a pretty woman." 

She blushed. He was flirting. 

"Let's find a drink," he suggested. 

The bar was crowded and boisterous. Open doors spilled people onto a covered veranda. Making their way thru the crowd, Grissom held her hand until someone reached to shake his hand. They were quickly separated by one, then two bodies. Sara knew where he was, but he was unaware that she was no longer beside him. 

A third body edged between them. Face to face, Sara and the man from Denver looked at one another. His hand touched the sleeve of Grissom's coat still around her shoulders. 

"Must have found a sweet sugar daddy, little lady," he barked above the bar noise. His fat finger touched her hair causing her to jerk and his drink to spill down her shirt. 

Instant fury swept her body. She reached to slap his hand away from her face, but her arm was caught inside the coat. His hand tightened around her arm. 

"Get away from me," she hissed with clinched teeth. 

He laughed, his breath sour with alcohol. 

Her arm found freedom. She opened her hand and pushed her palm against his nose. In a second, he was howling and stumbling against others. The crowd parted and just as quickly Grissom was by her side. 

"Are you ok?"

She was so angry she could not speak. He saw the dampness spreading across her shirt. 

The drunk was back in front of her, shouting, "You broke my nose, bith!" To Sara, the bar was suddenly quiet with every head turned to look at her. 

Grissom stepped in front of her, pointing a finger at the man from Denver. His voice a hard-edged whisper, "Get out of here. If you touch or talk to this girl again, it will be the last thing you remember for a month." His finger pointed at the fat man's chest. "If she broke your nose, you will look better for it." His finger never touched the man. A bar employee took the man's arm. "Get him out of here." 

The drunk stumbled against another group as he was led from the bar, throwing insults and swearing at anyone in his path. 

In another few seconds, the din of bar talk had forgotten the loud, obnoxious man. Few noticed the tall young woman or heard the man whose finger had pointed at the drunk. 

Sara was mortified, embarrassed, certain everyone knew she was at the center of this confrontation. Why had she reacted that way? Her anger in a moment had overwhelmed her. 

Grissom's hand guided her outside and away from the crowd. She apologized, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never meant for any of that to happen." 

Knowing his own temper had almost caused a physical altercation with an old, fat drunk, he took several deep breaths while she continued to apologize. 

He smiled, stopped in his steps, and turned to face Sara. She would not look at him. His fingertips touched her chin. 

"It's been a very long time since I thought about fighting over a girl—I'm happy it was you." 

Her eyes dropped. "I'm so embarrassed. Everyone saw it. I did hit him on the nose." 

Grissom could not remember the last time he had experienced the intense desire to kiss a woman as he wanted to now. As she stood there wearing his coat around her shoulders, refusing to look at him, her chin quivered. He knew tears were in her eyes. 

Instead, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and placed it in her hand. "Here," he said. "Let's go find a quieter place. I've never been much for bar conversation." 

Sara dried her eyes, folded the white fabric and handed it back. She knew he was trying to cheer her up. 

"Let's do it," she replied. Her fingers touched the spreading wetness on her shirt. "I need to change." 

His actual thoughts were about wet shirts and pretty women, but agreed with her wish. He waited outside her door while she changed, reappearing in a black pullover covering her from neck to wrist. She handed his coat back. 

"Thank you for the coat. I'm afraid I owe you a cleaning bill." 

"No," he said with a smile. "I can't think of a time I've enjoyed someone's company as much as the past two days." His hands came together, fingertips touching. Sara recognized his gesture as one of uncertainty. She waited for him to continue. 

"My room. Would you come to my room? Stocked bar, even food." 

It was Sara's turn to smile. "Sure." 


	4. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The persistent tapping insisted he open his eyes which were extremely difficult to focus. Slowly, he remembered the drinks, one after the other until the mini bar was empty. The tapping continued. It had been a well-stocked bar. Laughing, he remembered laughing. And giggling. He didn't giggle. He rolled over. There she was—Sara. His head hurt, but he smiled. Where was that infernal tapping coming from? 

He eased up from the bed. The darn tapping was someone at his door. It continued as he got to his feet, slowly. His head hurt. The clock showed seven. He was completely dressed, no shoes. So was she, stretched across the bed, an arm curled around her head. Even with his headache and fuzzy eyes, he knew they had talked until one or the other had fallen asleep, or passed out, on separate beds. What a night. 

Whoever was knocking on the door would not stop. He checked the peephole. His first thought was 'what the hell?'

He opened the door to Sara's boss. 

"Dr. Grissom, sorry for the early visit. At least you're dressed." 

Grissom tried to get his foggy brain working. What was this guy doing at his door? 

"I've come about Sara." He nervously looked around, obviously wanting Grissom to invite him in. "You knew Smithson from Denver?"

"Yeah." 

"He's dead." 

Grissom felt rocks tumble around his eyes. He remained silent. 

Sara's boss continued, "He had Sara's name written on his hand—and her room number. I don't think she would mess around with this guy, but we can't find her. I—I guess I hope you knew something." 

Grissom rested his head on the door. He and Sara had talked about her boss last night. Grissom had known him for years. He had integrity, even if he wasn't the greatest supervisor. 

"How did he die?" Grissom asked. 

"Pretty obvious. Drunk, vomit, choked or a heart attack waiting to happen. His door was open. Maid checked the room a little while ago. Found him, alerted the hotel people. He was cold, paramedics did not come. They found Sara's name, called her room, then called me. She's too smart to give him her name, but I can't find her." 

"She's here." Grissom stated it as simply as he could. "We talked most of the night, cleaned out the bar. She's asleep."

Her boss made a step back before saying, "I—I never thought…"

Grissom held up a hand. "Take a look." He opened the door. "Quietly." 

Her boss walked into the room, seeing Sara on the bed soundly asleep. He returned to the hall. "Thank goodness. I just did not want her messed up with this guy. Why did he have her name on his hand?"

"He made a few passes at her, including one in the bar last night. She made him pretty mad." 

The man wiped his face. "I'll see the locals. They are more concerned with getting him shipped out of here than anything else." He turned to go, then reversed his steps before Grissom closed the door. 

"Don't think you can steal my girl away, Grissom." 

Grissom had to smile. "I am. As soon as I can get an opening." 

The older man shook his head, "Let me keep her a couple of years. I retire in two years time. She's smart—probably the smartest person I've every hired—just getting on her feet. She'll be well trained by the time I leave." 

Grissom liked this supervisor. "I'll think about it." 

Sara's boss walked away shaking his head and laughing. He had a plan. He would increase her pay; make it more difficult for Gil Grissom to take her away. 

Grissom made coffee, ordered breakfast, and showered. By the time he was dressed, Sara had rolled over and had a pillow over her head. He placed a cup of coffee beside the bed. 

"Awake?" he asked. 

There was a mumbled response of unrecognizable words. 

"Drink this. I have aspirin. A shower helped." 

Her face appeared. "I can not believe I passed out." She complained, "My head is killing me." 

He handed her the coffee and aspirin, waiting for her to sit up. Bed hair and rumpled clothes, she looked better than most women. He had to look away to keep from laughing; he was sure they had laughed a lot last night, but he couldn't remember why. 

"Do you remember what we did?" he asked. 

She started laughing, grabbed her head with her hands, and moaned. "I can't laugh; it hurts too much. How many bottles did we finish?"

"All of them." He motioned toward the table which was littered with small empty bottles as well as three wine bottles. "I think it was the wine." He lay back on the bed. "I'm too old for this." 

He heard a snicker from her pillow. A knock at the door brought him slowly to his feet. "Breakfast, I hope. Then I have to tell you something." 

The waiter rolled in a food filled cart while Grissom opened the balcony door. Fresh air and hot food must have some redeeming quality for a hangover. Sara managed to roll out of bed and get to the bathroom. 

In a few minutes, she returned, hair tied back with his dental floss, something he had not seen before, and ready to eat. They loaded up plates with pancakes and fruit and moved to the balcony. 

"What do you have to tell me? I didn't run naked down the hall, did I? All I need is another 'scene' with the fat guy." 

"I want you to eat first. Tell me what we did last night?"

She laughed, pressed her hand against her temples and said, "I don't remember much. Couldn't be too bad. We kept our clothes on. You told me about Vegas. I think I told you about San Francisco. I can't swear to that." 

They ate in silence. She stopped with half a plate empty. "Tell." She watched, his blue eyes sparkled as he tried to maintain a serious face. "Ok, give it up, what!"

"Your fat guy died." He was not successful in keeping his smile hidden. It was taking considerable effort on his part not to laugh. 

"What?" She choked on coffee. "What?" 

He related the death details. She sat with her mouth open, not believing what she was hearing. 

"It gets better." 

"Please say he was not in my room." Her hand covered her mouth. She could not laugh. 

"No, but he had your name written on his hand." 

"You are kidding me!" Her face went white, humor gone. 

"And your room number." He added, "And your boss came here looking for you." 

Her mouth opened again, but no words came out. 

Silently, she left the balcony. In a few minutes, he heard the shower. He waited, finished breakfast, then made more coffee. The shower was still going. More minutes passed. The shower stopped. He waited. 

The bathroom door opened emitting a cloud of steam, hitting his senses with an aroma of fragrance that he would later think of as 'Sara'. How had she gone in his bathroom to emerge smelling like that? 

She walked out, looking like Aphrodite, wrapped in a cotton towel, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Long arms, those legs. It was his turn to be speechless. She walked over, pulled a chair to face him, and sat down. 

"Ok, Bug Guy. Start again. The coffee has kicked in. A shower helped. I threw up breakfast. Now, tell me." 

His head still hurt. There was too much going on for his brain to make logical order of it. This girl sitting in front of him wearing a towel did not help. She propped her feet on the bed beside him. As easily as someone else might unwrap a piece of gum, she stretched long legs from chair to bed and crossed her ankles. 

"Tell me." She was watching him as he struggled. He realized she knew what she was doing. Her brown eyes laughed, her mouth twitched in a grin. 

He reached for her hands, folding his around hers, quickly leaning to that smile for his lips to touch hers. He later realized that he had not pulled her from the chair, but she had come willingly to him. That first lingering kiss became dozens as they lay on the bed. Her fingers had unbuttoned his shirt while he had explored her neck, her ear, her hair with his lips. 

The phone rang. Both pulled away. 

"Oh, God, who is that?" He mumbled. Sara reached for the phone and brought it to his ear. 

"Grissom." 

Sara could hear a jumble of words. He looked at her during the one-sided conversation, agreed twice before saying "ok" and ending the call. 

Gently, he kissed her. "This was not meant to happen right now." His hands traced across the top of the towel, touched her collarbone, and moved slowly up her neck. If her neck and shoulders felt like this, he could imagine how her body felt. 

"The sheriff wants to see you." His hand continued to explore her chin, her hair, her eyebrow. 

"So it is true." 

He nodded as a loud knock on the door broke them apart. "That would be the sheriff." 

She rolled off the bed muttering a few words. He watched as long legs and a ponytail disappeared into the bathroom. He slowly buttoned his shirt. 

The sheriff sent a deputy; a young man who nervously introduced himself to Grissom, explaining his mission to question Sara. They heard the hair dryer in the bathroom. Grissom pointed to the chairs. "It may be a few minutes before she's finished." 

The young deputy circled his hat in his hands, taking time to decide what to do. Grissom picked up a trash can and cleared the table of empty bottles. "We had our own little party last night," he explained as the deputy watched. 

"Did you know Smithson?" the deputy asked. 

Grissom nodded. "For years, I'm not surprised." 

The bathroom door opened and Sara walked out. The deputy stood. For the first time Grissom became aware of the effect the tall brunette had on men. Dressed in the black pants and turtleneck she had worn last night, same clothes she had slept in, Sara looked beautiful. Grissom's eyes swept from Sara to the deputy and back several time. Her arm extended to shake his hand. Grissom thought, this guy does not stand a chance. He lowered his head knowing he had just described himself. 

"Sara Sidle." 

"Davy—Dave Dews." The young man took her hand. "The sheriff sent me." 

Sara sat on the edge of the bed, leaving the chairs for the two men. Grissom could not move his eyes from her. Had it been only ten minutes before that he was lying next to her? Her demeanor was one of a cool professional. 

The deputy began telling her about Will Smithson's death, her name and room number written on his hand. He was much more serious than Grissom had been. Sara kept her eyes on the young man. He asked if she could add any information to what he had. 

"I can not. I met Mr. Smithson three times, informally. He wanted to buy me a drink. I wasn't interested. Last night I saw him in the bar. He was drunk then." 

The deputy stood, followed by Grissom and Sara. He shook their hands. "I'm sure this is all we need," He moved to the door. 

"Deputy, has cause of death been determined?" Grissom asked. 

"Apparently choked. Going to be a direct funeral home pick up." He checked his watch. "Should be out of here within the hour. Thank you. I—I'm sorry to disturb you so early." 

Sara closed the door behind him, leaning her body against the door. Her head pounded. 

Grissom waited for her to move. Finally, she turned to face him and he saw the fear and uncertainty in her eyes. 

"You know I hit him."

Fifteen years her senior, twenty years experience, or instinct guided his actions. He took her hand and brought her into an embrace, not passionate or sexual, but one of support. 

"Did you really throw up your breakfast?" Any time he threw up, it was serious. 

He felt the nod of her head against his shoulder. He moved her outside to sit telling her he would be back. He knew that nothing was left in the room bar, the breakfast was cold, but there was a vending machine down the hall. He returned with a canned drink and some kind of snack cake. 

"Here. Junk food always helps." He watched as she ate and drank, then said, "I apologize about earlier." 

The food stopped half-way to her mouth. "Don't." She smiled. "It was nice. Just not enough." 

It was his turn to smile. "I meant telling you about Smithson. I should not have laughed. I didn't think. I am sorry." 

"I'm fine." Not really, she thought. "You don't think my hand in his face caused…"

Grissom reached for her hand. He liked the touch of her fingers, how his hand fit into hers. "No, Honey. Smithson was an old, overweight drunk. You did not even give him a nose bleed. Certainly did not break his nose. It's over." He kept her hand in his. 

"I have such a headache." She snickered. "I know we laughed last night, but this morning isn't so funny." 

"Come on. Let's take you back to your room. You need to sleep." He checked his watch. "I'll check on your later." 

At her door, he left her. She asked if he would come in. 

"No, not now. If I come in, I might not leave. And you need to sleep." He lightly kissed her hair, reached around the door and hung the "do not disturb" sign on its handle. "Sleep." He ordered. With his words, she handed him her keycard. 

"For later. So you can come in." 

Inside her room, Sara reached for the phone. After two short calls, she got the answers she wanted, and changed her clothes. A few minutes later, there was a knock at her door. She did not check who was there, she knew—her co-workers. A whispered, giggling conversation followed. She had what she wanted plus a few extras. They left just as quickly as they had arrived after a promise. Sara did not tell them about the guy from Denver. She was not sure she would ever tell that story. 

She unfolded the fabric they had left. Black lace, two pieces. Not some thing she would buy, but she smiled thinking about Grissom returning. The other things, she threw into the Bible drawer. Deciding not to wear the black things, she crawled into bed and in minutes was asleep. 


	5. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

In her dream, he came to her. She watched him undress in the darkened room. He told her he would stop at any time. She responded that she could not and would not stop. She woke to find him sitting beside her. 

Her first words were, "You came back." 

"Yes."

"We have a few hours before your flight." 

"I can change the flight. I checked out, brought my bag." 

She smiled. "I have the room until tomorrow." 

He picked up the phone and a few minutes later, they had another twenty-four hours. He took a deep breath. She folded the sheet back and sat up. 

"Should I help you?" she asked. 

His hand wiped across his face, another nervous gesture he had. "I—I need to get some things. I—I did not think…"

"Look in the Bible drawer." She watched when he grinned to find what he needed in the drawer. "Friends," she said, "I knew they came prepared." 

He began to unbutton his shirt. She watched, catching his eyes and smiling. 

"Are you afraid?" she asked. 

"Scared beyond words." 

"I won't hurt you." 

"That's not the reason." 

She met him with a passion as furious as his own. She touched his hair, kissed his closed eyes, and took pleasure from him. As men have thought for thousands of years, Grissom thought of the sea rising with waves all around him. This could only be happening to him and this woman. She was this warm liquid ocean moving with his direction, yet it was her directing, her control that got him here. His heart had beaten for a lifetime leading him to this act in this place with this pale woman. 

Once he said, "Let go, let me have you." He caressed her until she cried out. 

Later, half asleep, he woke aware that she had turned away from him. He put out his arm to find her silently crying. 

"What is it? Sara?" 

At his voice, she turned her face into his neck, making no noise. 

"What is wrong? Can I do something?"

"How can we do this?" She cried quietly. 

"Do you regret this?" He asked. 

"No, no. We have so little time. How can we sleep it away?"

"Sara, Sara, this is not an ending. This is a beginning." 

She wiped her eyes. I've never been with someone like you. In a few hours, you will leave. I'm not sure I will see you again." 

"Yes, you will. Before this, I knew I wanted you—perhaps not like this. This is only the beginning." 

He felt her face wet against his shoulder, trying to imagine her thoughts. "You are safe with me." He whispered. 

He heard a smile in her voice when she said, "I am not safe with you, but I would not be anywhere else." 

The afternoon and night passed with waking hours spent intertwined in the old lovers tangle, surprised and pleased with actions that led to sleep. They found drinks from their road trip but avoided the mini-bar wanting nothing to diminish the memory of this time. He was breathless watching her white luminous body move in the dark room. How could he leave her? 

Housekeeping had knocked twice. Their things were packed. They stalled. They took deep breaths. She had cried in the night but she would not let him see her tears today. He grew quiet. He watched her dress, which made her laugh. He said she giggled. 

The intimacy of the bed cooled and when they closed the door on their shared room, neither looked back. She knew how to close her emotions from the rest of the world. He struggled with his own. 

"I know so little about you," he said once they were in the car. 

"I don't like bugs," she replied. 

He took her hand and traced her fingers with his own, memorizing the pattern of her palm. He wanted her to talk so he could memorize her voice, as if he could forget her words. 

"What kind of music do you like? What movies do you watch?"

She glanced at him and gave that smile. "We may find a real divide here. Sarah McLachlan. Goo Goo Dolls. Pearl Jam. Red Hot Chili Peppers. Any of these sound familiar?"

He shook his head. "Try movies."

She thought for a minute. "I don't see many new movies. I saw Armageddon and You've Got Mail. Oh—A Bugs Life. Actually, I liked bugs in that movie. Did you see it?" 

Grissom shook his head, "Maybe I should." 

"Tell me your favorite movies." 

He raised an eyebrow. Just as he did not know new songs, he did not see many new movies. "I watch old stuff—Citizen Kane, Vertigo, Strangers on a Train, Key Largo, Sunset Boulevard." 

"I've seen some of those. Maybe I need to watch them again." 

"Maybe I need to listen to Goo Goo Dolls." 

Silence filled the space between them. She drove with one hand. 

"We have time for one stop." She maneuvered the car to an exit, took several turns until she pulled into a parking lot. She pointed to an imposing cliff-hugging building. "Have you ever been there?"

"No."

She got out of the car and he followed her down a path to ruins of a once massive structure until they reached its end overlooking the ocean. 

"You asked if anything kept me here. This is it." She waved her hands to include all they could see. "I've always lived near water." 

He watched her, waiting for her to continue. 

"When I was a kid—let's say I did not have the best of childhoods—not much of a family—I would come here or another place just like it. Too tall for my age, few friends. Always had a book. Up at the restaurant, they got to know me during one year when things were not good. I'd be here every day after school, every Saturday. The cooks decided I was a starving run-away. They would leave me soup and bread. I'd bring it here. Crouch down from the wind, eat soup, read, and dream." She looked back at him, finding him watching her with intense blue eyes. 

"It was not bad. I truly enjoyed my privacy, my secret from the world. After a year or so, I found another place to hide, or maybe too many tourists took this one. I don't remember." She wrapped her arms together. "For college, I went east, scholarship, I told you. Every day, I missed the ocean. I missed its sound, its weather, its smell, its freedom. I'm not ready to leave this place. It's part of me." 

He had watched her animated monologue, hair blowing around her face, salty water spraying from the surf. This was a complicated woman. She had moved close enough for him to touch her, to put his arms around her shoulders and bring her face to his. 

"I don't know if I could live in the desert," she whispered. 

He pulled her close. "We would make a good team." He kissed her eyebrow, her nose, her lips, her chin. "And we have this reason." 

Several minutes passed before Sara said, "It's even better to be here with you." 

"I've talked more to you than I've talked to anyone in ages." 

She had her arms wrapped around him when she whispered, "We need to go." 

"I know." 

They slowly walked back to the car. Along the way, she picked up a small stone. "Take this back with you." He looked at the rock in her hand. "To remember me." 

"Sara, I will remember you. Trust me. I'll take your rock, I'll call you. I will come back."

"I know." 

Driving to the airport, their conversation repeated similar words again. In the parking garage, he kissed her again. "I promise to call." 

"I know."

"We did not have enough time." 

"We had enough to want more." 

"I like that." 

She smiled, "So do I." 

He kissed her again on the escalator. 

At check-in, he asked for her ID, talked to the agent, and got her a gate pass. 

Holding her hand, he asked very quietly, "Is there a boyfriend?"

"No. Do you…?"

"No. I suppose I do now." They smiled. 

At the gate they stood against the wall, separate from other passengers. 

"Sara, let me know if you have problems. About, about anything. I want to see you again."

The gate agent began boarding passengers. 

"It's time for you to go." 

"Yes."

"Do you email?"

Grissom shook his head. "Not much." 

Sara pulled a pen from her bag, reached for his hand, and carefully wrote her email address across the back of his hand. "There." They both laughed. "Tonight, email me." 

Grissom called her. He emailed her. 

Sara went back to the cliffs. Her boss gave her a significant raise. Nothing was said about the man from Denver. 

A week later, a package arrived from Las Vegas. Sara opened the box to find a bubble wrapped frame with a carefully mounted butterfly centered between panes of glass. A note was attached, 'Come to the desert.'


	6. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_Emails: _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: maryjane, cannabis, marijuana_

_Or whatever you want to call it. I am so high its not even funny. And I smell, stink is a better word. I worked a double after some judge ordered a big medical marijuana center closed and I got to inventory all the stuff in there. Do not laugh. I am not laughing. I should have worn hazmat, but of course, why would we do that? Along with about two dozen deputies, three of us were taking pictures, counting everything, packing up files, and all the packages. It was everywhere. _

_I swear those deputies just wanted to get high. Of course, we had all the protesters out front. I do feel very sorry for these sick people who are just trying to make it from one day to the next. So maybe I support legalized marijuana. _

_At the end of the shift we were given a card to carry with us saying we had been involved in a drug operation that might result in a positive drug test. We keep it for 30 days. I think I might burn my clothes except I'm wearing my favorite jeans. I am beginning to believe flowers in your hair might not mean 'flowers'. I went back to the cliffs today, wished you were here. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: Hearts, flowers, weed_

_I am searching my memory to find a story as funny as yours. Definitely, nothing like this is happening in Vegas. I am wiping tears from my eyes. All we have are stolen cars, frightened tourists, and an occasionally dead mob guy. Wear some flowers—the blooming kind, in your hair. I wish I were there to pick them. It's been two week and I think I left my heart in San Francisco. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Come back_

_I will be off Thursday and Friday of next week. Take the red eye flight. I can pick you up. Or you know where I work. My apartment is very very small, but big enough for us. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Rain drops falling on my head _

_110 days of rain. I think I have ferns growing from my fingernails. Does it rain in Vegas? I'm sure it does, not for 110 days, that's like the ark. A few nights ago, all our pagers went out. Silent—nothing. Most of us do not have cellphones, so we had to find a phone and call in every few hours. Big mess. Well, not so bad. We were doing the calling and our boss could not call us. Yes, we worked, but we also ate pie. The biggest story is the shooting of a 17 year old female by two officers trying to stop a drug deal. Now sure what will happen on this one. All the senior investigators are working, leaving the other cases to the juniors (as I am). Missed you on my days off, but we will work something out. I'm not sure when I will get two days off. Thank you for calling, but a phone call is not like having you. I could not talk much at work. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: Who ate pie?_

_Vegas does not have 110 days of rain, 110 degrees yes. People go crazy in the heat. Does rain have the same effect? Your shooting made news here. It is an interesting case. Keep up with it, ask questions. Call me when you get a day off. Who ate pie with you? I thought that was my job? _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: Earthquake! Where are you?_

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Working_

_I am working all the time. We are so backed up. I have worked doubles, then sleep a few hours, and work again. Got your messages, but was dead on my feet. I am working on some of the small things from the shooting of the 17 year old. This is going to be a big one. We will talk later. Come, I need a day off to do other things. Earthquake not much, just a little shake. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: Viva Las Vegas_

_Coming. Take the day off. _

(Early morning, San Francisco)

The taxi driver stopped in the middle of the street saying "you sure this is right?" The house was covered with vines, a tangle of green, purple, and red. Grissom got out with one small bag. The sun was almost peeking over a distant horizon giving a shiny haze to dawn. All was quiet on the street; not even a dog barked. 

A gate closed off the walkway from the door he could see; garage doors were shut tight. He pressed the button beside the number 'two' hearing nothing. A brick wall separated the driveway from the next house. 

He leaned against the wall checking his watch. He had left two messages at her work, sent an email. She always checked her email. She would be here. He would not think otherwise. She knew he was coming. If only for 24 hours, less the four for flights, less the hour it had taken to get from the airport. 

He saw her walking up the street carrying one of those recycle bags. She had not seen him. God, she was beautiful, and younger than he remembered from a month ago. 

She glanced up. A smile broke across her face. Not just a smile, but a face-changing broad grin. Her walk changed to a run. Those legs he remembered covered the distance in long strides. Her voice breaking the quiet morning. 

"You came! You came!"

He was almost catapulted back against the wall as her arms wrapped around his neck. Her enthusiasm was contagious. He caught her as she literally jumped into his arms. He remembered why he came, why he had called work and taken a day off. 

She chattered non-stop. "I had to get food. I was afraid you really would not come. Can you hold this bag? Where's my key?" She had a key in the lock and was swinging the gate open. "My place is small. I mean real small. I'm not much into sharing, an apartment, I mean. I'm so happy you came." 

Grissom had not gotten five words out of his mouth since she arrived. All he could do was smile. She led the way past the first small porch and door, around to the back of the house. Plants were everywhere. Vines grew unchecked choking out morning light. 

"It's a jungle back here. Duck your head." She ducked under a woody vine as thick as his arm. Her key opened the door. "I've warned you it's small. She opened the door. "But big enough." She smiled. 

Intoxicated by her voice, her smile, all of her, he was trying to organize appropriate words. He knew how Lancelot felt. 

Grissom stepped inside. Sara was already across the tiny kitchen, talking, putting eggs in the refrigerator. The walls were purple. Two windows faced the backyard. Books lined a continuous shelf along the walls, above the door, above the windows. A stack of books made a table.

"Come in. Don't just stand there!"

He stood, rooted to the floor, uncertainty entering his thought process for the first time in hours.

Glancing over her shoulder, she stopped talking and smiled. "I'm nervous. I over talk when I'm nervous." She took his bag, then his hand. "I'll show you around." 

Her kitchen, living room, and bedroom were one room, her bed built in a raised alcove. The butterfly hung beside her bed.

"The bed—it hangs over the garage below. So there's only one open side." 

His hand had moved to touch her back. He could smell her hair as she turned to him. Her words trailed. Her lips met his. Her hands were in his hair, touching his face, pulling away, finding his shirt.

"I'm so happy you're here." 

"Sara, Sara, Sara," were the only words he could form.

She had unbuttoned his shirt, pulled her own off, and backed the few steps to her bed. His own hands trembled as he touched her skin, finding delicate soft places on her neck, around her breasts, near her waist. Her thumbs hooked her jeans, shoes fell. 

They were on this odd bed with only one way out.

"I like your hair. It's longer," her husky voice a whisper in his ear. Her hand and fingers played, wrapping a curl around her finger.

Kissing her neck, moving down across her chest, his hands found her soft round breast with its small hard crown. She moaned, her hands working on his belt. His mind snapped. 

"Wait," he whispered. He began to back away from her. "In my bag."

Her bare legs wrapped around his. "Stay here. Shed the pants." She twisted to reach a shelf above her head bringing a cascade of colored square packets into the bed. Laughing. Giggling. "San Francisco, home to free condoms."

He blushed, but his pants were off. 

In the next few hours, Sara learned the difference in having sex with a twenty year old boy and making love with a forty year old man. Afterwards, in the dark, she would ask questions and he would give her answers. Now, she found that sex was more than an act lasting longer than one song on the radio. She progressed from orgasm to dreams without skipping a beat. Grissom did not sleep as quickly, but watched her as she had watched him the first time. What had he found?

He woke to a light touch tracing across his shoulder. For someone accustomed to sleeping alone, his senses immediately recognized soft lips. Lips that met his when he turned.

In this purple cocoon on a quiet morning, she moved over him with yearning born of loneliness, abstinence, and passion. Unspoken, both had found in each other that connection of accidental lovers. Love, or lust, or an age-old desire to know another's intimate needs pulled them into their own world.

The breath left his body. Her hands, her mouth moved and touched him in places saved and hidden from his own feelings and desires. He wanted her. Suddenly, her lips were back to his and he was inside her. Briefly, he tried to hold back yet the attraction; the magnetism of one heated surface to another would not break. The words would not form as he gave way to ultimate need. He heard and felt her rise with him on breaking waves of passion; he was lost.

"What happened?" It was her voice that brought him back.

His hand played lightly along her inner thigh. He had not protected her. She had to know.

"I'm sorry," he met her eyes. "My fault." His hand continued an upward stroke against her thigh. 

She smiled. "It's ok. I'm on the pill—have been for years." 

The worry in his eyes did not go away. She continued, "Its fine. I know I'm—I'm healthy."

He knew what she meant. "I don't do this." He stopped trying to find a way to explain over two decades of intimate history. "You know you are special."

She nodded. "I don't sleep around." She gasped her eyes wide.

It was his turn to smile. His hand moved in that secret sexual motion that some men find, and others can only hope to find, in a special erotic place. His finger pressed; she gasped again.

"Keep your eyes open," he whispered. And he watched as her lipid brown pools melted into complete darkness of dilation. He felt his own contraction of emotions, but this was her time. His could wait. Her back arched with pleasure. "Eyes," he said again when hers closed.

"I can't." Her breath left her. "Please." 

He moved his hand to bring her to him. Warm, wet contractions pulled him into her. He wasn't lost. He had found his heart. 

They slept until afternoon sun filtered thru vines and windows and glanced off surfaces to find the two lovers in a purple cocoon. 


	7. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

When he opened his eyes, he saw purple. He rolled over in this odd bed to find he was alone. Sara stood by the sink eating. She brought a pear back into bed. 

"You're cute," he told her as she leaned over to kiss him.

"Only after sex." 

""No, all the time." 

She cut the pear and passed a slice to him. "I've not been cute since I was two." She lay beside him, her head fitting against his shoulder. She sliced the pear, ate one piece, giving him the last slice. 

"We should have a serious talk." This was his comment as he ate the pear. 

Her face turned to his. "I don't want serious—work is serious. This is fun."

This was not going the way he wanted. "Serious. For two minutes." 

She waited. 

He continued. "Where do we go with this? What do you expect from me? I've never been good with—women." He made a deep sigh before continuing, "I am not very good with most people. I don't know what to do." 

Sara remained silent for several minutes. Neither was uncomfortable with the quiet. Finally, she spoke. "I've always been a loner, Grissom. I love my work. I read. I run. Maybe I don't expect much from life, but you make me happy. You make me feel as no one else has ever done. Maybe I'm naïve. I enjoy you. Do you feel like that at all? Am I going off in the wrong direction?" She stopped, and when he did not say anything, continued, "Do you want to leave now?" She gave a hard laugh. "I've had my share of those who never called or came back." 

"I called. I came back. I'll come back." He wrapped his arm around her. "I want you in Vegas." She remained quiet. "Visit me. See what you think." 

"I'll visit." 

His arm hugged her close. This serious talk was not what he wanted. "Let's find real food. I'll take you out." He played with the strap of her tank top. "Dress. We'll have a real date before I have to leave." 

She giggled and rolled out of bed. "I think we skipped the dating part of this." She reached in a cabinet for clothes. "I won't be long. All that activity made me hungry." 

Grissom crawled out of bed, found his own clothing, and began the process of looking closer at her apartment, occasionally pulling a book from her shelf. Not many new books, mostly textbooks, a few novels, a few LP records. Must have been her parents music, he thought. Two photographs, one of several policemen and Sara in the middle, one of a young couple standing in front of a small car, probably parents. Basic furniture, nothing new, but selected to fit. No clutter of bric brac or small treasures. A rock. He picked it up; similar to the one she had given him. He silently scolded himself for playing investigator. It was not his business to look to closely. From his bag he pulled three things, a movie, music, and a forensic journal. He sat on her small couch and waited for her to finish. 

She dressed quickly; black sweater, black pants. She knew he was different from other men she had known. Certainly older, certainly aware of what a woman wanted, very quiet, almost shy. She smiled to herself—some things were not learned from books. This is where she found him, reading a journal. 

While he showered, she found the movie and music. The movie she had seen once, but the music was not something she knew. She put it on to play. When he opened the bathroom door, she was leaning against the cabinet, waiting, and smiling. 

"I might learn to like this" she said, "if I knew the words." 

He grinned. "You look nice. You don't need to know the words. It's tragedy or love—this one is love." He pulled a folded paper from his bag. "Do you know this place?"

She knew it but had never eaten there. "We can drive. It's not too far, might be easier to take the bus." She reached for a well-worn transit schedule, flipped several pages. "One bus, short walk." 

He agreed. "I'm with you." 

They walked three blocks, waited for a bus. She talked, he listened. He could not remember the last time he had ridden a bus, but this was how she got around the city. Once on the bus, he realized the diversity of her city rode the bus. Finding no two seats together for them to take, a young man moved so they could sit together. Off the bus and another short walk, they found the restaurant. Sara checked the posted menu, running her finger along prices. 

"Too expensive," she pointed to one line. "This is the cheapest thing." 

He pulled her finger away. "This is a date. I'm paying." 

She giggled. "I told you we sort of skipped that dating part." 

She could giggle better than anyone he knew, he thought. He did not know many people who actually giggled. 

She pointed up the street. "Just up there is a great place to eat. Not fancy, but good food." 

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Strawberry shortcake to die for." 

She knew good food, he told her as they finished a four layer cake, piled high with strawberries and whipped cream, the real stuff. 

He kissed her at the bus stop. A street musician played a violin across the street. "Wait here," he told her. She watched as he crossed the street, passed money to the guy, and ran back to her. He kissed her again as the man began to play a song. The bus arrived, the music stopped, and people on the four street corners suddenly applauded as they boarded the bus. 

Grissom waved, Sara giggled. "See why I love this city!"

"You promise to visit me?" he made it a question. 

"Yes, I promise. I will." They found seats. "What time is your flight?"

"Five."

"I'll take you." 

"No, you need to sleep, real sleep."

By the time they arrived at her gate, she had his shirt unbuttoned. "Why do I like to be in bed with you?" she asked. 

He lifted an eyebrow, and by the time she opened, then locked her door, he had pulled her black sweater over her head. 

_Emails: _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Letter_

_I found your letter after you left. I did sleep. Your letter is way too serious, but I've read it a dozen times today. Do you really enjoy being with me? I talk too much. Maybe this will work out, I talk, you listen. I have so much to learn. You are a good teacher. I will visit you. Work is crazy. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Meth lab_

_I hate this stuff. We are now wearing hazmat as well as breathing devices. Ugh. How can people make this stuff? If they would spend time learning useful knowledge and science, they could be very productive. But no! Cook up a bunch of meth instead; destroy their lives as well as others. It was great having you here. I promise to visit. Work is hectic. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: Do I have to type something here?_

_You are right about meth. I am forwarding you research and history, very interesting how this epidemic started and moved across the country. Took most of us by complete surprise. Work is much the same here. I can work 20 hours a day. I will rest for your visit. I will call later just to hear your voice. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: You can leave this line empty : )_

_Did you find my smile? Our lab is doing lots of work for smaller departments in the area. I can work doubles every day! Of course, there are lots of mistakes made in collection when we do not do it. I got to work on a kidnapping just north of here. I volunteered to do it. Also got to see this demo of a bomb sniffing machine at the airport. I think my boss likes me. Did I tell you I got a raise after the conference? Of course, he does not know about 'us', or does he: ) that's another smile. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: _

_I figured out the smile. You make me smile. I am working on my boss about another position. He will hire from within, but we need you here. I need to be more political. Take a day off, visit. I want to show you where I live and work. Graveyard is a great shift here. The lab stays busy and we have some bizarre cases. On a bizarre scale, not sure we are number one, but we are near the top. Three weeks—too long. We will talk later. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Work_

_I got the book. You are a Shakespeare reading entomologist. Interesting man! It is now at the top of my stack, right by my bed. Wish you were here to read it to me. Remember the case of the police shooting the 17 year old? The driver has been arrested. Taking an interesting turn. I will be called for depositions, all day sitting in a room. Take another day off and come. Read to me. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: violence_

_I have cried most of the shift. No, I haven't, but it has been hard. Did you know the leading cause of death in pregnant women is domestic violence? _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: Go home_

_I will call you at 7. Go home. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: 8 weeks_

_You have a ticket. In your name. Waiting for you to pick up. Come. Please. _


	8. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Sara's heart had beat double-time since boarding the plane. A two-day visit, that's all. A lot, she thought. It had taken her hours to pack one bag. She settled on black and white, more black than white. He would pick her up. This made her nervous. She hated to be dependent. She suggested renting a car, but Grissom would not discuss it. 

"I'll be there. I'll pick you up." 

She walked off the plane to find him standing there, waiting, smiling, nervous. Eight weeks made for unfamiliarity. He took her bag. "I was afraid you would not come." 

"I came," She smiled. "Two months is too long." 

"Yes, it is." He kissed her lightly. Anyone observing would see greetings between two casual friends, not lovers of eight weeks absence. 

They walked to his car; as she learned, it was his work vehicle, accessories for every likely event. "Nice wheels," she commented. Not even her boss had something this nice. 

He pointed out landmarks as he drove. She had never been to Las Vegas. He talked about the 'strip' and building boom of casinos and hotels. His hands played nervously on the wheel as he drove. 

"I need to go back to work, just a short time." He said. "It's a case we need to close. I need to be there. Just for a few hours." 

"I understand." 

"I'll take you to my house. Is that ok?"

She nodded. "Thank you. I may sleep." 

He smiled. "I won't be long." 

He showed her in, but left quickly. Almost afraid to touch her as she was him. She walked around his townhouse; bright open windows surrounded the living room, a big kitchen area, modern furniture, an office, which she did not enter, his bedroom, another bedroom. Her entire apartment would fit inside his bedroom. All her belongings would fit in his bathroom! He had left music playing, the kind he liked, she thought. She sat on his sofa, and finding a stack of journals, began to read. 

The sound of a door woke her up, unsure of how long she had been asleep. Quickly, she got up. Grissom entered the room. Immediately, Sara knew something was wrong. His face was pale, his hand spread across his face. He kept his sunglasses on. She recognized the signs. 

Without speaking, he filled a glass with water, holding it against his face. 

"Headache?"

He nodded. "I can't believe this is happening." She walked over and turned off the music. 

"Migraine?" She asked. 

He nodded again. 

"Do you have medication?"

"Bathroom." 

She took his hand, leading him into his bedroom. She pulled the bedcovers back, found his medication, brought water to him while he lay with his arm across his eyes. Back to the kitchen, she made an ice pack and brought it to him. She closed the blinds and the door to darken the room. Sitting beside him, she started a light gentle massage across his shoulders, neck, moving to his temples. 

"I can not believe this." He whispered. "How did you know?"

"Foster—a lady I lived with had migraines. I learned what needed to be done." She continued with massage. "Will the medicine help you sleep?"

"I don't want to sleep." 

"You need to sleep." 

"Stay with me. Here." His hand patted the bed. "This is not what I planned." 

She laughed quietly. "I know. I'll be here. Sleep if you can." 

She continued with the massage until his breathing was deeper and the creases around his eyes relaxed. No vomiting was a good sign. When she was certain he was asleep, she stretched out beside him. How ironic, her first visit and he was sick. She curled up and drifted into sleep. Hours later, she woke to find him still asleep. She quietly slipped out of the bedroom. In the kitchen, she found bread and peanut butter and juice. All she needed. 

The phone rang twice. On the third ring, she picked it up, "Hello."

"Is Grissom there?" a female voice asked. 

"Yes. Can I take a message?"

"This is Catherine. Who is this?"

"A friend. Grissom has a migraine." 

"Did he take his medication?"

"Yes." 

"Good. Tell him I called. Glad he has a friend." The phone clicked. 

Sara had heard about Catherine. She smiled. He had obviously been as quiet about her as Sara had been about him. She ate her sandwich. She went in search of food she could fix for him, certain that peanut butter would not be high on his list after a migraine. Plenty of juice, eggs, potatoes. She could work with that. His kitchen was too clean for much cooking to be done. His freezer was filled with frozen dinners; the kind people ate alone or in a hurry. 

She peeked into the bedroom after hearing movement. "You ok?"

"Come in. I'm better." 

"Back from the abyss? Or at least climbing back? Another ice pack?"

"Maybe. How long have I been out?"

"Long time. About eight hours since you came in." 

She fixed another ice pack. He remained in bed. "How often?" she asked. 

He struggled to sit up, then returned his head to the pillow. "Two or three times a year, but not often this severe. Thanks for taking care of me." 

"Are you ready to eat?" 

"Not yet." 

"Drink then." She held a glass and supported his head for him to drink. 

"You do know how to take care of a migraine." She kept her hand in his hair. "Did you sleep?"

"I did." She laughed. "You know this is the first time we've actually slept with each other." 

He smiled. "I did not mean to be sleeping. You didn't come to play nurse." 

She leaned over to his face. "Can I kiss you?"

He did not answer, but pulled her to him. "That's better. You ate peanut butter." 

She curled beside him, her head on his chest, telling him that Catherine called. "She knew I had a migraine coming on when I left work. Did you tell her who you were?" 

"No, she didn't know, so I said I was a friend." 

"Good. She tells everything she knows." 

"Can you go back to sleep?"

"I'd rather talk to you." 

She smiled, her hand stroked his face. "I kinda like that scruff you have going. Maybe you need to forget to shave, let me see how it looks."

He rubbed his hand over his chin. "Maybe I'll do that just for you. Would you visit more often?"

"I would." 

In the dark, he listened while she talked about work, what she was doing, what she read, her co-workers. In a while, he was back asleep. A little while after that, she fell asleep, her hand on his face. 

In the middle of the night, she got up and fixed eggs and potatoes. Grissom got up long enough to eat, then stretched out on his sofa. "If I can remain still, my head does not hurt so bad." 

She cleaned up the kitchen before she joined him. "Do you know what triggers it?" she asked. 

"Everything, nothing. My mother had them. Who did you take care of?" 

"A lady I lived with for a while. She would be sick for three days. Of course, medication is better now, but she would take these powdered aspirin and drink Coke. I knew to get those two things to her when she walked in the door. Funny, but she made the same motion with her hand across her face, kept her sunglasses on until we could get her to bed and make the room dark."

"I'm sorry about this." 

"It's fine, really. I needed sleep and with you, I usually don't get much." 

"I wanted to show you Vegas, the lab, let you meet my boss." 

"We'll have time for that, maybe next trip. You need to go back to bed. The light will be bright in here in a few hours."

"Will you stay with me?"

She nodded, he added, "without those clothes."

She giggled. "I don't want a relapse." 

He smirked, lifting one eyebrow; the first sign that he was getting better. "I will have some part of you before you leave." With that comment, they returned to his bedroom. 

"This is not the weekend I intended." He was leaning against the wall waiting for her to board. They had stayed in his house for two days, most of the time, he was flat on his back. Sara had read his books, even read aloud to him when he was awake, and cooked for them. His frustration had boiled over at one point until she took control making him keep his head on the pillow. Later they laughed, but she knew he was disappointed. 

"Next time." Were the words she left him with. 


	9. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

_**Emails: **_

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Music Festival _

_Can you come next weekend? Best music festival all year, weather promises to be beautiful. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF  
SUBJECT: Yes_

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: Maybe_

_Big shot casino guy found dead last night, probably drug overdose. I've got to work this, or at least part. Go to festival. If I get there, I'll go to your place and wait. The next week I am in Reno at a state conference. I'll call later. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: I'll work_

_If you can't come, I'll work. Should you get here, call me at work. I'll be in the lab. I'm working on three cars and no one else wants to do it. My boss says I am getting much better at taking them apart._

The phone range twice before being answered by a male voice, "Crime Lab."

Grissom hesitated, and then asked for Sara. 

"She's out. Leave a message?"

"No, no, she was expecting me to call. Do you know when she will return?"

"Not for awhile. Are you the out of town friend?"

"Yes."

"She's gone out on a body. You want the address?"

"Yes, thanks." He took the address, got a cab and gave the address to the driver. Forty-five minutes later, he left the taxi, and walked to the crime scene. A crowd had gathered to watch. He searched the sight for Sara. It took several more minutes to get the attention of a policeman. 

"I'm looking for Sara Sidle, crime lab investigator." 

The policeman looked him over. Grissom was reaching for his ID, when the policeman pointed at the white house. "She's under there." Grissom showed his ID and the tape was lifted. "Come under. The detective is over there." He pointed to a group standing near the house. 

Grissom approached the group who turned in his direction. He had his ID out. "I'm Gil Grissom from Las Vegas, looking for Sara S--." 

"Sara's under the house." 

"Las Vegas? What bring you here?" 

Another question was asked, but quickly he explained, "I'm here visiting Sara. The lab said I would find her here."

Two men chuckled. The older man said, "You've found her. We may have to have her dipped before she leaves." 

Two feet appeared under the house. They could hear swear words, as the sprawled form backed out, tugging and pulling something on a plastic sheet. Grissom stood back and the others reached to pull Sara and the plastic from underneath the house. 

"I am never going to do this again. Take my name of the list! I can not believe you made me crawl in there. I hate bugs, and spiders. I hate roaches and god knows what else. Every one of you owes me big time, I mean like meals for months. I'm going to get fat like the rest of you low-life's and then I won't fit under a house! I probably have spider eggs in my ears!" 

The men were laughing. Others had hastily hung white sheets between the crowd and the recovery. Another policeman was backing the crowd away from the sight. The men helping pull Sara and the body were trying not to laugh; a few gave up and headed to the back of the house. 

Sara continued her tirade. "I have crawled through body fluids before, but this is the worse, the worse! How did he get under there? Stand back, I think I'm gonna barf." One of the men handed her a bag as he helped her up. She headed in Grissom's direction without looking up, just stuck her head in the bag. He heard vomiting. He held out a handkerchief. 

"Here, you need this." 

Her head remained in the bag. Slowly, she extended her hand and he placed the handkerchief in her hand. She turned her back to him, wiping her face, pulling the white bonnet from her head before she turned to look at him. 

She grinned. "You picked a fine time to find me, Grissom." She was covered with wet grim from head to toe. He started laughing, covered his mouth with his hand and joined the others behind the hanging sheets. 

She followed him; ranting a few more swear words at her co-workers. Grissom and the detective helped her out of the coveralls, both wearing gloves. 

The detective explained to Grissom that everyone else on scene had been too big to slide under the house, so Sara had volunteered to do it. 

"Yeah, right. You called my boss and said 'send the skinny girl out here'. I know what you did. At least I didn't barf until I got out!" She was laughing with them now. "It's going to take a month to get this smell off me." 

Several beer bottles were dragged from underneath the house and bagged. The body was wrapped and transported. 

"Sidle, do you need a ride?" The detective asked. "You can ride in the van back to the station." He turned to Grissom. "You need a ride? I'll let you ride shotgun and we'll wrap her in a sheet. Keep the smell down."

Grissom tried not to laugh. They were all taking shots at the only girl on sight, and the only one who had done the smelly work. Sara laughed along with them. He realized how much she was part of this group; and while they laughed, they were protective of her. 

Later, they ate near her apartment, after she had showered and they rode the city buss to her neighborhood. She asked him twice if she smelled. Finally, he told her she smelled just like a woman is supposed to smell, no fragrance lingered from underneath the house. He wasn't exactly truthful, but he didn't care. He just wanted her close. Twice he kissed her ear, telling her that was one way to check for spiders. 

"I hate bugs." She said, then paused before saying, "but I like butterflies. And men who study bugs." 

They never got to the music festival. Instead, they made up for the "lost" weekend in Vegas which they would refer to years later. 

_Emails: _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Dead guy_

_This took a turn for strange. Remember the db I pulled from underneath the house? Of course, I smelled all weekend, but you were nice enough not to say that. He died from antifreeze. Yes, drank beer and antifreeze together! Who know how he kept it down, but that's what was in him. He did smell sweet. Not really, but it was an odd smell—ok, decomp always smells odd. I hope you have a good state conference, but sincerely hope you do not meet someone like me in Reno. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: never_

_I will never meet anyone else like you. Do you think you can get a night off if I take a detour after the conference? I'm sure I can find a way to fly into San Francisco. Isn't it on the way back to Vegas? _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Traffic_

_Did we make your paper? Cyclists were all over town yesterday stopping traffic, including on the bridge! I should not say this, but it was so funny. Maybe I need a bicycle. Work is crazy as usual. I think it's the full moon. My boss has put me in charge of the lab garage after I dismantled three cars several weeks ago. Of course, I am not fooled; no one else wanted this job! Do come. Call me at work. I can pick you up in one of the cars I took apart—kidding!_

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: car vs dead guy_

_I'll take the car any day over having you under a house. Doesn't look good for the detour. Several going. How much advanced notice to you need to take a night off? _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: If you are here, I will take off. _


	10. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

"I'm coming."

That's all Sara had to hear to leave work. She had maxed out on overtime for the month so her boss was relieved to see her take some time off. The girl was a workaholic. Working when no one else would, volunteering for jobs no one else wanted. Of course, he had heard about Grissom visiting her. He thought it was a good sign; at least she had some social life. He worried that she would burn out in a few short years. 

Sara pulled her car to the arrival curb at the airport. She spotted him as he exited, hopped from her car and waved. He looked good, wearing a dark coat and dress shirt that he had not changed from his conference. She met him with her arms out ignoring the signs that a driver must remain with a car. She didn't care. 

Driving back to her apartment, each one over-talked the other. She made a drive-thru stop for Chinese food. He said he wasn't hungry for food. He had to get out of her car so she could park in the tight garage, then they raced to her door, both laughing as they fell into her apartment, unbuttoning clothes, kicking off shoes, dropping belts. He had every intention of talking—a serious discussion about them. He knew he needed to tell her things. It never happened.

She wore his shirt as she ate, distracting him even more. 

"When did you last eat?" he asked. 

"Noon. A pot pie." 

"What is a pot pie?"

"You know." She circled her fingers. "A little frozen thing with veggies and something like chicken in it. Zap in the microwave and it's hot." 

He wanted her back in bed. "Look in my bag. I brought you something." She unfolded her legs as she got up, unaware of the effect she had on him as she walked across the room, his shirt long enough to cover her but short enough to tease his eyes. 

She pulled a box out and looked at him, a puzzled look on her face. He motioned for her to return to bed. 

"It's a toothbrush." She kept the look on her face. "A toothbrush?" she questioned. 

"Not just a toothbrush. Two toothbrushes. Two ultra-something-just off the Sharper Image shelf, newest thing. And—there's another set at my house." He looked so pleased. 

Sara opened the box, spilled all the parts and pieces onto the bed. "Neat. Rechargeable." She picked up the two brushes. "I get the purple one." She grinned. 

"Yes, and the purple one at my house is yours." 

"I've never had a fancy toothbrush." 

"I can't get enough of you."

She laughed, scooped the toothbrushes back into the box and slid back into bed with him. Her bare legs twisted around his. 

"You look better in my shirt than I do." Gently, he removed it, kissing her as he did. 

Hours later, it was Sara who began their first serious conversation. "Grissom, do you think we are too much alike?"

He waited a minute trying to form the appropriate answer. "I think we are compatible. That's good." 

"Do you ever think about us? I mean when you are not with me? All we do is work, email, and have sex." She snuggled closer and kissed him along his neck, to his ear, across his eyebrow, down his nose, until she got to his lips, making it difficult for him to respond. 

A while later, he woke to find her reading. She had moved to the end of the bed using a small light clipped to her book. She wore his shirt, her hair pushed behind her ears, one hand curled against her mouth. In this moment, he saw a serious young woman who had willingly and generously given herself to him asking for nothing, no commitment, no promise, no responsibility. He knew for the first time in his science-disciplined life that his heart ached for her—knowing it was not his hear but some primal function in his brain that connected him to her. 

"I think about you all the time." He whispered. 

She looked up and smiled. "All the time?"

"I dream about you." 

She closed her book and on hands and knees crawled back to him. 

His last conscious cognizant thought was how could two people find such insatiable attraction together only to part in a few hours, going separately for days before joining again in renewed passion. Was this love, infatuation, obsession? His logical thought process left him. 

_Emails: _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Work_

_We have been overpowered at work. Third coffee machine broke this morning. I need to sleep but this evidence keeps piling up. Throats slashed on two people two weeks ago, then yesterday another one. She died. The other two lived. We are working on DNA, but of course there is so little to compare with now. I am processing then re-processing. I don't think I can get away for at least another week. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Throat slashing_

_It just gets worse. Call when you can. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: Coming_

_I've talked to your boss. I'm coming to help, in your lab. We will work together for a few days. Move over!_

They worked on opposite sides of the table, photographs spread between them of three victims, throats cut, blood everywhere. Grissom had slipped into the lab easily. Sara's boss had been more than pleased to have the extra hands, his eyes, and his experience. Work had been divided up; three slashing, four teams moving between cases. Magnification had found an imprint on two victims. Grissom kept going back to the image. 

"It's not a bite mark. Did either of the victims say he kissed them?"

Sara continued looking at the other photographs, never lifting her head. "It's not in the notes. The third victim is in the morgue. You want to check her?" She looked up to see the door swinging, Grissom gone. She chuckled. He was as obsessed as she was. She followed him to the morgue. 

The coroner and Grissom were bent over the body. The woman had been homeless; Sara's first thought was the effort being made to find her killer was more than had been done for her while she lived. Sara joined the two men. The coroner was wiping dried blood from the woman's neck. 

"There is a mark here, not teeth, more than a bruise." 

Sara looked at the area. "It looks like a love bite." Both men looked up at her. 

"A what?" They both asked at the same time. 

"You know, a hicky. A suck mark." She made a face. "Like kids do when they make-out."

Grissom shot her a questioning look. The coroner looked at the skin again. "I think she's right. But why? It is right on the end of the cut." All three looked at the area. 

Grissom stepped back, looking at both. "Is he drinking blood? Or sucking blood?"

It was Sara's turn to make a sound, something close to gagging. 

Before returning to the photographs, they reported their suspicions to her boss. An hour later, everyone met to discuss findings. All three victims had been homeless. The two who lived were being questioned again. Fingerprints had proved useless, either smears or so many, that none could be matched. 

Grissom brought up the possibility that blood had been sucked out of two. The group broke up, returning to their evidence once again. Sara and Grissom once again went over photographs, looking for anything that might provide a break. 

"My eyes are crossed. I need a break." It was Grissom's first break in over four hours. The stack of photographs was smaller, and fewer were spread across the table. He had watched Sara work all day. She gave no indication of stopping. 

"Ok, I'll keep going for a while longer." 

Grissom found the break room, filled with others, talking about this case. He got coffee and moved to the hall searching for a quieter place. Sara's boss saw him.

"Come into my office. We can talk." 

The two men had known each other professionally for years, meeting at conferences, occasional calls about work. 

"There is not going to be a good ending to this case." 

Grissom shook his head, "Never is when someone dies." 

"In out work, that's the usual. However, I've gotten word on the possible perp—man on parole who hasn't been seen by his probation officer in months."

Grissom's hand went across his face. "Not good." 

"For any of us. I'm going to need someone from outside the department to sign off on our work. Do you think you can do it?"

"What about Internal Affairs?" Grissom asked. 

"They will be busy with the police side of it. If I hand the evidence over with your signature, IA will not question our work. Look over everything, just to make sure we have done what we are supposed to do. If it's not right, don't sign it." 

Grissom agreed. As a criminalist outside of the department, even one from out of state, would give a higher degree of credibility to the work. "Can Sara help with this? Put things in order, be the fact-checker?"

"Certainly," Her boss leaned back in his chair. "I'm glad you brought her up."

"She smart." Were Grissom's first words. He knew her boss knew about them, but was not sure how much. 

Her boss got up and closed the office door, then returned to his desk. 

"Sara is an excellent investigator, smart, dedicated, one of the best I've every hired. Almost too much. There is a compassionate soul in that girl. She comes in with the weight of the world on her shoulders; doesn't want others to see just how much she cares—I am talking victims here. Then she smiles. We all think the world is a better place. It isn't. One day, her work, her compassion is going to burn her out or take her to another place. I'm telling you this as a warning. Help her." 

Grissom was not sure how he should reply. He chose a professional one. "I want her in Vegas, in my lab. Right now, I have no hiring responsibility. We are stuck in a cycle of selective hirings, relatives or knowing the boss. I know if I can get her there, my boss would hire her. We need an outsider, one with her dedication." 

"She will leave when she's ready. Sara is one of the last free-spirits. I've known several women like her. She's been very happy the past few months. I think that's because of you. Do the right thing." 

Grissom's face changed to one of puzzlement, then he quietly asked, "Marry her?" 

Her boss laughed, glanced at the ceiling, then returned his eyes to Grissom. "I'm not sure Sara is the marrying kind." He leaned across the desk. "Hope I did not say something out of line. Here's advice you did not ask for from an old man. There will come a time when you will have to do something—even if it's wrong, goes against everything you've ever done—but if you want her to be happy, do it." 

Grissom had stopped breathing after the marrying kind comment. He was more confused than ever, uncertain what to say next. 

Her boss continued. "I know my team. I know Sara. More than she knows. Be good to her. She's the best person you will ever know." 

There was a knock on the door; Sara's face appeared as the door opened. "Guys, not good. They are bringing in a 'vampire killer'—so he calls himself. 

The two men rose. Her boss held out his hand. "You two go get some rest. You will need it for the next few days." 


	11. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"How long have you been up?" 

They had eaten on the way to her apartment, showered, and were on her sofa. She had her head against his shoulder. 

"I don't remember, maybe 24 hours." 

He wrapped an arm around her. "Get in bed. You need sleep." 

Her hands moved. "You're not coming?"

He smiled. "Yes." 

"Does it bother you that we work with dead people?" 

Grissom smiled again. Her questions could come out of nowhere. "It does not. The dead can't hurt us; we can only help them. Does it bother you?" 

"Not usually. Sometimes when I tell people what I do, I can tell they can't understand why I do this." She was quiet and Grissom waited for her to continue. "A lot of guys are like that." 

"How did you get started?" 

"Looking for something after college. I liked the science part of it. I hoped to do something good. Once I started working, I realized I could do this kind of work." She yawned and rubbed her eyes. "Most of the time, it doesn't bother me, but sometimes it does." 

"What bothers you the most?" He asked, sensing that she would talk in her half asleep state, relaxed in her own space. 

"Kids, women." She made a sound near a laugh. "Well, that covers at least fifty percent of who we see, doesn't it. Maybe it's violence against kids and women, but I don't like violence against men, either." She took Grissom's hand. "Let's go to bed. You must be as exhausted as I am." 

By the time her head was on a pillow, she was asleep. Grissom followed a few minutes later. Five hours later, Sara woke, reached for her book and light, and moved away from Grissom. She watched him sleep for a few minutes, before opening her book. Later, he reached for her. With no words spoken, she moved into his arms. Neither would ever call this act making love; but both realized they knew the desire of the other more intimately than anything else they had ever done. He knew the sounds she made, felt the arch of her back against his hand. She recognized his soft guttural moan as he moved into her, the brief shallow breaths before air left his lungs, and his lips touched hers. A gift, she decided, given and taken between the two of them that no other person they had ever known could claim. 

Grissom slept. Sara was up moving as softly as a cat when he woke for the second time. "Do you ever sleep?" he asked her. 

She giggled at his question. "Yes." She slipped back into the bed. "I sleep better with you than I have in years. I think it's what you do to me." 

"This is pretty nice." 

"You have work to do." 

"I'd rather stay here." 

"You've been here all night. Let's go walk, clear our heads before getting back to work."

They walked. She led and Grissom followed; climbing steep streets, turning up narrow staircases, finding a park overlooking the city. She laughed when he complained saying his legs were in no shape for all of this. Never in his life had he enjoyed the company of another person as he enjoyed hers. Free-spirit her boss had called her. He was not sure how to define that term. At noon they were people watching as locals and tourists crowded the park. After all these week, he knew so little about her yet felt he had known her all his life. 

In the middle of their conversation on earthquakes, he asked, "Sara, where are your parents?"

She glanced at him, then turned away. "I have not had parents in years. Yours?"

"My mother is living. My father died when I was young." 

She smiled, turning back to him. "Another thing we have in common. My father died when I was young." She did not mention a mother. 

They sat in silence for several minutes until he said, "I guess we need to work. We need to review evidence." 

At the lab, the two learned that a young mentally ill male had confessed, recanted, then confessed a second time to killing one and causing injury to three others; drinking their blood claiming to be a 2000 year old vampire. Grissom and Sara left him to others. Their job was with the evidence. By the third day, Grissom had turned his review in to her boss. He also knew he had to return to work. 

"Sara, Sara, I will miss you more than I want to admit." He held her close; they had left the lab, returning to her apartment before he flew home. "Come to Vegas. I promise not to be sick this time." 

"I will. In a few weeks. I promise to come." She was wearing his shirt. During the night he had held her as silent tears wet his shoulder. But today, this morning, at work, even now, she had closed those emotions. She smiled; she kissed him, passionately, "I'll take you to the airport." 

"No, we've talked about this. It's easier for me to leave you here. Try to sleep. You go back to work tonight." 

The taxi horn signaled his airport ride was ready. "I've got to go." 

She nodded. "Email." 

"I'll call." With that he was out her door. 

_Emails:_

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: I miss you already. _

_It is so quiet here, even with everyone around me. I miss you working across the table from me. Maybe I will come sooner. I will miss you at home too, but I have your shirt. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: Yes_

_Come. I will stop working for you. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: You may want to rethink this_

_CDC came today—that is Center for Disease Control. My city has an epidemic of venereal disease, yes, the big S. We were told to double glove, wear face shields, wear long sleeves. Pick up no evidence without latex. The police are going batty. At least the crime lab gets there after the fact. The up side of this, condoms are everywhere! I picked up a few, thought things might get interesting when I come next week. : )_

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: I am working because you are not here. Come. I need a day off. Six weeks is too long. I need my shirt!_

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Work_

_It is all I do. I need sun. Fog fog fog. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: We have sun_

_Come, 8 weeks is too long without you. Get on a plane. _

_Sara talked to her boss. He gave her a week off and asked if she needed a ride to the airport. She thanked him, sent one email, threw clothes in a bag, got in her car and drove. To Vegas, across California. _


	12. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

"What is wrong with you?" The blonde woman had her hands full of evidence bags looking at Grissom. For the second time in an hour, he had dropped what he held. He had also knocked over a cup of coffee in the break room. Catherine had been near enough to be the recipient of spilled coffee. "You've been like a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs!"

He stepped back. "I need to go home. Can you take care of this?" Driving, he thought. Why had Sara decided to drive? At least five hours, longer if she stopped. Alone. He cleaned up his mess. Catherine continued to talk. 

"Catherine," he turned, waiting for her to be quiet. "You know I have bugs—at my house, right?"

She stopped what she was doing. "Yeah, on the wall, probably in your refrigerator." 

"I have live ones too." 

She made a face. "Gross, Gil. I hope you have them in a pen! Or do you open the door and they run to you like puppies?"

"They are in my office, in an aquarium. A few in my garage—another aquarium." 

She leaned into his space. Catherine would do this to him, hinting at some secret they shared. Years ago, he had decided they worked well together because she was who and what he was not. Her fingertip touched his chest. "Fess up. Something else is going on. It's not bugs." 

He would not reveal much. He also knew Catherine would tell anything she knew. His words rushed out. "If you didn't like bugs, I know you don't, and I had bugs at my house," he could not arrange his words to articulate the question he wanted answered. 

She broke in. "Gil, do you have a girlfriend?" His face flushed and he quickly turned away from her. "You do! Who? Someone here? No—I'd know about her. Who? Did you leave her in your house with bugs? No—she's coming! From where?" She rattled on with ten more questions that he did not answer. 

He finished laying out the evidence bags, and turned to go. 

"Wait, you never answered my questions!"

"Right, yes, no, you don't know her." He left work without the answer to his question, and without answering many of Catherine's. 

What to do about the bugs? He knew Sara had not seen them; when his migraine had kept him incapacitated for her entire visit. Now she was coming again, driving. He checked his watch, already four hours into her drive. He stopped for food. He knew she ate peanut butter and yogurt. Traffic was a nightmare. 

In the grocery story, shoppers filled the aisles. It hit him. New Year's Eve. He had another realization—causing him to smack his forehead and utter a word—Christmas. He had worked, there had been celebrations around him but he could ignore most of them. A plate of food given to him and he kept on working. He tried to remember if Sara had mentioned Christmas, no, he would remember. 

He circled back to the meat counter for steaks, then potatoes. He could grill. He needed to tell her about his bugs, roaches to be precise, but maybe she would not ask for details. 

One more stop. A present. Christmas meant a present, even if it was late. The shop did not gift wrap anything, but he and the clerk found a box. 

Driving home, traffic snarled. Checking the time, he realized nearly six hours had passed since her email. 

Her car was in his driveway. Sara was sitting on his steps, stretched out, legs across the entrance. He smiled. 

She was beside him before he opened the door. "I made it. Straight thru, one stop." She was laughing, pulling him out of the car. "God, I've missed you!" Her hands, those long fingers laced around his neck, in his hair. 

"Groceries, food…" She let him go so they could carry bags into the house. He carried the box. One more trip brought her bag inside. But then, food was forgotten. His concern about the bugs was forgotten. All he wanted was to have her. 

She turned from the refrigerator when he said her name. His breath caught. She had this affect on him. A fleeting thought crossed his mind—he had never had this happen with Catherine. Sara was no Catherine. 

She opened his jacket, burying her head against his shoulder; her breath warmed his neck, her hands moved up his chest, into his hair. In a slow waltz, they moved out of the room to his bed. Her shoes the first casualty followed by his coat, his shirt, his belt. 

"This is new." He hooked the front of her bra with his finger. He felt her smile. 

"No more sports bras over my head," she mumbled. "And it matches your eyes." He found its hook and flicked it over his shoulder. "I have not showered." 

"I don't care." 

This time, she forgot about her supply of colored, textured, and other descriptive nouns used for the condoms she had brought. Grissom slept for several hours. Sara remained in bed, curled beside him, finally sleeping after watching him smile and reach for her in his sleep. 

She could stay with him forever like this. Then she thought, no perhaps not forever, but certainly for a while. She was not yet ready to stay forever; that was too final, too much of an ending and she wanted the beginning to go on forever. She knew too well what happened between the beginning and forever. 

Grissom woke to find her watching him, smiling. He knew by now that she did not sleep much, or ever very long. She reached for him, hungry again for what he brought her. 

"Wait." He pulled his boxers on, going into the living room, returning with the brown box. "I have a present for you." He disappeared into his office. "I have one thing to add to it." 

She watched him as he sat at his desk writing. 

"We also need to have a talk." 

She frowned. Not sure what he wanted to say. Then, she said "Well, I am in my car, so I can leave." 

He laughed. "No, that's not necessary. I hope, anyway." He continued to write, then folded the paper and placed it inside the box. 

"I didn't bring you a present," she was sitting in bed with his sheet tucked under her arms, her face glowed, her eyes sparkled. 

"You brought yourself." He placed the box in front of her. "I hope you like it." 

She pulled the wrapped form from the box, along with the sheet of paper. She unfolded it, reading the words, then smiling at him before reading again. 

"Pablo Neruda wrote the poem. Unwrap your present." 

She peeled back brown paper to find a wooden articulated hand. The kind artists used for models. The kind students used to learn the workings of the hand. She blinked rapidly, ducking her head so he did not see her tears. A poem about hands. A model of hands. Long slim fingers. Like her hands. She remained quiet. 

"Honey, look at me. Do you know why I've given this to you?" He touched her chin. A tear dropped on the poem. "I've made you cry. I'm sorry. I know it's corny, but I want you to know how I feel."

She brought her face up to his, her arms around him. "I've never had anyone do this before." She whispered. "Never. I love the hand. I love the poem." Her tears fell against his chest. 

"Don't cry. I didn't mean to make you cry. I'm not very good at this." 

She wiped her tears. "Read it to me, please. I want to hear your voice." She smiled. 

He returned her smile. "I had to paraphrase parts of it. And a few words may be scrambled in translation." 

"It's perfect. Read." 

"When your hands go out, toward mine; why do they bring me flying…" He read the entire poem. She asked him to read it again. He did, the two lying wrapped together in his bed. She moved the fingers of the wooden hand while he read. "…until your hands closed on my chest and there like two wings they ended their journey." 

He moved the hand to the table beside the bed. "I could stay with you for…"

She touched his lips with her fingertips to stop his words, following with her lips as she kissed him as lovers do. 


	13. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Grissom's bathroom and shower were so much larger than the one in Sara's small apartment that it provided a luxury for her to experience. Grissom sat on the bathtub watching her as steam billowed around the glass. 

"What do we need to talk about?" She asked. 

"I don't think I am capable of talk while I'm watching you." 

She giggled as she turned the water off. "Pass a towel, please, then we can have this talk." She hid her fear well. Her voice remained calm, neutral, with a hint of laughter. He would never know what she feared most. 

He wrapped a large towel around her, another around her hair. "It's no big deal. I hope it's not a big deal." He returned to sit on the tub. He could watch her for hours as she dried her hair, applied lotion to her body, and dressed. Whatever she used, the fragrance was gone in a short while, but remained captive in the smell center of his brain, that 'Sara smell', he thought. 

"I know you hate bugs." He hesitated for a minute, continuing, "I have bugs here." 

She turned to face him, a faint smirk of amusement showing, "I know you have bugs—on the walls, like most people hang sunsets!" 

"No, that's not all. Do you want to watch fireworks tonight? I think we can get to the strip. It's a pretty fantastic display for New Year's."

"Back to the bugs." 

"In my office, here, I have an aquarium. Not fish, bugs. Live ones." 

The look on her face was one of suppressed laughter. "Ok, is there a top on this aquarium? And do I ever have to feed them?"

His look was one of relief. "Top, secure. Well fed." His fingers touched. Sara knew there was more to come. "And in the garage. I have some in there. You don't have to go in there." 

"I can deal with bugs. Just so they are not spiders." 

"He's in my office at work." 

Sara hid her face in her hands, laughing. 

"I'm just happy you find it funny." He stood, wrapping his arms around her. "I was afraid you would run away." 

"Bees. I don't like bees. Weird little creatures. Living in those tiny hives. Just don't ask me to handle bees, or roaches, can't stand those either." Grissom did not notice her obvious relief; or he thought it was because his bugs were not spiders. 

"Let's go watch fireworks. Let's go see Vegas at night." 

It wasn't just fireworks, but an implosion of one of the older hotels they got to watch. Thousands of people lined the strip to watch the countdown. Grissom held onto Sara as they made their way down crowded streets. Most of the police on duty knew him and let them cross barricades and pointed out better vantage points. After the last of the fireworks exploded, they made their way back to his car. 

Grissom's pager beeped twice before he looked at it, glancing at Sara as he replaced it. "One stop before we head home. I want you to meet someone." He drove several blocks until they could see blue lights of a crime scene. He called to a man standing behind the yellow tape. "Brass, meet Sara Sidle." He watched the two as they shook hands, "He's really a good guy." 

Brass laughed, saying "It's good to meet you, Sara. This guy wants to get you out of San Francisco." 

Sara shook hands. "I'm not sure I'm ready for Las Vegas." She smiled as she looked at Grissom. "Maybe I should try to get him to San Francisco." 

The two men talked about the crime, wished each other a happy new year, and parted. 

Back in Grissom's house, Sara started a serious conversation. One she had thought of often, but never spoken. 

"Grissom, I don't think I'm ready to move." 

"Just think about it, ok." He was cooking eggs, never looked up. 

Sara came to stand near him. "I've never been this—what do we call this—involved? With anyone before you. I don't want you to expect something from me that I can't give you." 

He flipped the eggs onto a plate, adding cheese. "Sara, what do you want from me?" 

"I'm happy with you." She reached to touch his face. 

"Eat." He moved a plate to her and handed her a fork. "Then happy we will be. No more, no less. If it means we travel back and forth, then we can. When—if—one of us decided to move, that's fine." He hugged her. "I do think we should be together more often. And I know we work well together." 

"We do." She giggled. 

Another question formed in his mind. He was already forty. He had never thought about marrying someone; and remembered her boss' comment. He could wait. 

Sara stayed three days. Grissom gave her space, time to drive around; he brought interesting cases home so she could read about the work he did. She would sleep with him during the day, curled like a kitten against his chest. Her scarf over a chair, her book opened on the table, a glass of water beside the bed told him his house felt like home to her. 

On her last day, he left work early. She had already decided to drive back late in the afternoon, to avoid heavy traffic she said. They both knew the real reason was to have a few more hours together. Her scarf was gone, her book packed. His house already felt her absence. 

She was in his kitchen, placing dishes in the cabinet when he walked in. "I hope you don't mind. I cleaned things up." 

"You don't have to have permission to do anything here." He reached out and pulled her to him, wrapping arms around her. "Sara." He whispered. 

She closed her eyes, letting her lips touch his neck at the hollow of his throat. She unfastened each button on his shirt, kissing the skin underneath. He lead her to the bedroom, carefully undressing her, pulling her t-shirt over her head, unsnapping her jeans, always keeping one hand caressing her body. 

He said, "Have I told you how beautiful you are?" 

Sara started to say something, but stopped. She touched his shoulder with her fingers, feeling the smoothness of his chest. 

"I've wanted you all my life," he told her, and the way he said it made her tremble. He wrapped her in the sheet, asking "Are you ok?"

She nodded. He smiled as he traced her jaw, her chin, her lips, with his fingertips before seeking her lips with his. His heat she would remember when she was alone; how his body was always warm. 

Grissom's eyes closed in after-sex drowsiness while she lay awake, not understanding completely how he could sleep so quickly and at the same time feeling that she was his protector while he slept. She watched him knowing certain contentment with life not easily found, especially for her. 


	14. Chapter 15

**Chapter 12**

Emails: 

From: SarainSF

To: BugGuy

Subject: Home

The drive home was boring. Not much to see as in scenic, but much to see in a blue of landscape. My apartment seems small after your house. It is small. I did find a place for my hand. And the poem. Back to work tomorrow. I did enjoy visiting. Thanks. 

FROM: BugGuy

TO: SarainSF

SUBJECT: come back

I'll buy you a ticket. Hours on the highway are ones you can spend with me. My house misses you. I miss you. 

From: SarainSF

To: BugGuy

Subject: Work

I try to look on the bright side of things. What we do is important. What we do can be so sad. After two days, I am finally home. I can barely keep my eyes open, except it is hard to sleep. It's a good thing my bus driver knows where I get off the bus or I would have slept his entire route. Sorry I missed your calls. It is easier to write than tell. A seven year old was found dead at school, hanging in the bathroom. By the time we got there, over 50 people had been in that bathroom. All night we took shoe prints. Everyone, especially the reporters, said we were looking for a bully or a predator. The little shoes were the worse. I want to believe that one kid can not do this kind of thing to another, even when everyone is saying yes they can. How could a kid be hung on a hook nearly five feet off the floor? All day we matched shoe prints with what was on the floor. Griss—this was a time when we were all near tears. He was playing, jumping on a bench. Caught his collar on the hook and strangled on his shirt. Just a little kid, having fun, playing. 

FROM: BugGuy

TO: SarainSF

SUBJECT: I'm glad we talked 

I know you are exhausted. We all have these cases we remember, and children are the worse. The younger they are, the more difficult it is. But you have to learn to let it go. We can not change history. 

FROM: BugGuy

TO: SarainSF

SUBJECT: Where are you?

Four days, not emails. Where are you? I've left messages. 

FROM: BugGuy

TO: SarainSF

SUBJECT: I am worried

Where are you?

FROM: BugGuy

TO: SarainSF

SUBJECT: I am coming

Got your message—actually 3 messages. Leaving here as soon as I can. I'll be at your place by the time you finish your shift. 

The taxi left him at her address. The morning routines for most people had already begun, papers were thrown in driveways, dogs let out, and shades lifted. This house was quiet. The gate locked. Grissom pressed the second bell but heard nothing. Just as he had done months ago, he leaned against the wall to wait. Above his head, he heard a window open. 

A voice spoke to him, "I can let you in." He looked up. 

He could make out a shape, a female form, peering down at him. 

"Does Sara know you are coming? Well, that's stupid, of course she does or you wouldn't be here." 

He stepped away from the wall to get a better look at the window. "She knows. I'm not sure when she will get here." 

"I'll be down." The form left the window. He heard a door open, then a woman appeared at the gate. "We put this gate in. Sara and I did. We did not want to be bothered by salesmen and preacher boys coming around." She held the gate open. "I can let you in her apartment." 

"You are trusting me not to know who I am." He smiled at the older woman. "I might be one of those preacher boys." 

She smiled, her face wrinkled across its surface, her eyes twinkled. "Oh, I know who you are. I've seen you here. I know she went to visit you."

He held out his hand, "Gil Grissom." 

"Barbie Ross, landlady, friend. Come up. I'll give you tea or coffee and you can wait on Sara." 

"Thank you. I hate to impose." 

"I invited you. It looks better than you standing around in my driveway. Neighbors might talk." She gave a chuckle. "Like I wish they would talk about me!"

He entered her door, sweeping his eyes to find a place totally unlike the small apartment at the back of the house. Every surface was filled with collections of a lifetime spent in one place. She made her way into the kitchen, indicating a chair near the front windows. "There. We can see Sara when she arrives. Coffee or tea?"

He noticed her tea cup by the window. "Tea is fine." In a few minutes she was back with hot tea and an old fashioned sugar bowl. 

"You live out of town, Mr. Grissom. Las Vegas, I think?"

"Yes." 

"Our Sara works too much, you know. Not the kind of work I would have chosen, but maybe it chooses one." 

"Have you knows Sara for a long time?" 

She smiled at him in the way old women have of telling what they know. "Sara lived with me when she was younger, before college. I guess you know that story." He did not but he let her continue. "When she came back here to work, that's an awful job for a young woman, but I've said that already—she needed a place to live. We decided to fix up this little place for her and it's worked out for both of us." 

She poured more tea into his cup and scooped another spoon of sugar into it. 

"It is a nice place." He agreed. So totally 'Sara' if one could be defined by how their living arrangements looked. 

The landlady leaned near him, asking, "I hope you don't plan to take her to Vegas, Mr. Grissom. It would break my heart to lose her. Not that we see each other every day. It is a comfort knowing she's here." 

It was his turn to smile. Maybe this was part of the answer Sara always gave; perhaps this older woman was the reason and not her job. 

"I don't think I can take her away." Not yet, he thought. 

"Don't hurt her. She's had enough of that to last a lifetime. I guess you know about that part of her life." How could he admit to this woman that he knew nothing? He let her continue. "She's so smart. Always was. I've always thought that those of us, who are just average, maybe below average, have the best life. We don't worry so much. We don't over analyze everything. We don't try to logically think about every thing and how many ways it can go wrong." She laughed again. "I think that's the reason the stupid folks are taking over the world. They just have more kids and more votes than the smart ones do." She looked out the window. "There she is. Watch this." 

He saw Sara turn into the driveway. Her head bent, her shoulders sloped in the exhausted way one has after working too many hours. 

"Good morning, Sara." The older woman called from the window. Immediately, a transformation took place. Her head came up, her back straightened, a broad grin creased her face. 

"Hey, Barbie!" 

"You have a surprise here! His name is Gil." 

If it were possible, her smile because wider. "You met! My two favorite people!" 

Grissom stood to leave. Barbie got up with him. Quietly, she whispered, "The girl has so much compassion, but you would never know. Take care of her, Gil. She needs to be happy. That child that died a few weeks back has really gotten to her." 

By the time they got to the door, Sara was waiting. "Thank you for taking him in. I might have to give him a key if he keeps showing up like this." 

Barbie gave her approval. "Does he look like a keeper? I think so. You two enjoy your day. I'm off to shop and visit the library." 

Fatigue showed in Sara's face. She stumbled once inside the house causing Grissom to catch her arm before pulling her into a hug. 

"Rest, honey." He moved her to the sofa, noticing the dark circles under her eyes. "When did you eat? When did you sleep?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I don't want to sleep. I smell like work. I need a shower."

"Sit here. I'll find something for you to eat." 

He found yogurt and an apple, turned around and saw that Sara had fallen asleep, exactly as he had left her. He pulled her shoes off and found a blanket to cover her. Then he ate the apple, lying in her bed, alone. That's where she found him when she woke. She showered, pulled on clean clothes—not sure why, because she had every intention of waking him up and clothes would not be required for what she had in mind. 

She had to crawl over his sleeping body to get in bed with him. She snuggled up next to him and still sleeping, he wrapped his arm around her. 

"If you are asleep, how do you know who you are hugging?" She whispered in a hushed giggle 

One blue eye opened. "I dream only about you." 

"Good." 

He pulled her to him. "You smell good—that Sara smell that I have imprinted on my olfactory receptors." 

"You mean if I smelled of peppers and garlic, you would not like me?" 

"I'd have to develop new receptors, but I would still like you." He kissed her, feeling her touch his lips, tasting her mouth, smelling her fragrance of some undetermined bouquet of air, spice, and hints of flowers. It would take him years to learn exactly what that fragrance was. 

"How long did you sleep?" 

"Long enough." 

He looked at her face, dark smudges remained under her eyes. "Not long enough." He touched below her eye, tracing his finger across dark circles. "Even a shower did not help these." 

She brushed his hand away. "I want you. Not sleep." 

"I'm worried about you."

"Don't." Her hands roamed across his body, finding buttons on his shirt. His hand closed over hers. 

"Honey, you need rest." 

"I need you." 

"Rest, first." He felt her tense and she moved ever so slightly away from him. He brought her back to him. Holding her, he realized she was thin—to thin. True, she was slim, but this thinness was recent. His hand moved from her arm to her chest, feeling her ribs below her breasts. No wonder dark circles were under her eyes. 

He spoke quietly, saying words he had thought a hundred times when with her. "I love you, Sara." 

Until he heard his own words, he knew the earth could not stop spinning. Yet he felt an uncommon stillness as the breath left the woman next to him. A wave of warm air blew past him and suddenly he felt cold. She rolled from his arms until she was against the wall in this bed with only one way out. Without doubt, he also knew she would have run in a less closed space. 

She had cried before—each time quietly with the wetness of her tears being the only evidence. This time her tears were joined with choking sobs that shook her body. Her hands knotted into her eyes. She gasped for breath as she turned her face into a pillow. He reached for her but as she shuddered at his touch, he pulled back. Why had he said those words? Why was this her reaction? Certainly not what he expected. 

As he listened to her, an unknown intuition told him it was not his _words _so much as the words he had spoken that caused this emotional torrent. This was not a rejection from a woman but cries for something else. 

Her sobs slowed to hiccups. He got up and returned with a cold washcloth. When he touched her, she did not flinch as he washed her face. Neither would she look at him. He found the book he had sent after his first visit and began to read aloud to her. She wiped her eyes and remained close to his side. He wrapped one arm around her and continued reading. Gradually, she relaxed, her breathing became steady, and tension eased from her. Slow, regular breathing told him she was asleep. 

For several hours, she did not move as she rested in a deep, dream-free slumber. Grissom followed her in a fitful sleep with his own dreams, all the more confused and tangled in trying to find a reason. He remembered the words of Barbie Ross, perhaps he was thinking too much, analyzing every action. He woke to find her hand cupped against his face. 

"You're awake." 

"Yes." Her fingers moved in his hair. 

"You needed to sleep." 

"I did. It's been hard." 

His arms wrapped around her. "Tell me." 

"Since the little boy. I can't get him out of my mind. Life is so unfair." 

"It was an accident." 

"I know but that doesn't help his parents or his sister. Their lives are altered forever." 

"Sara, you have to let it go, honey. We can't keep playing every case asking what-if."

"How do you do it?"

"I move on. There's always another case. I read—Shakespeare. Some times I ride a rollercoaster." 

Her head lifted. "You what?" 

"Ride a rollercoaster." 

"Aren't you afraid one will fall apart?"

"No. We can't let our fears control what we do." 

"I'm not afraid when I'm with you." 

"I meant what I said earlier." 

Her head was against his chest. She could hear his heart beating. "I know. I—I don't know why I did that." 

He knew. His dreams had sorted out a story of long-dead or lost parents, placed in a stranger's home who became a friend, a recently dead child, exhaustion, and three words she seldom heard had overpowered a fragile system. His own emotions were difficult to control when he was near her. 

Her fingers worked on his shirt as his hands began light strokes to sensitive areas and she smiled. She pulled him into her warmth, the close feel of hr made him gasp in second before those waves crashed against his physical body. When eyes opened, they were smiling. She placed a kiss on his chest. 

"No," he whispered, "here" and she kissed him long and deeply on his lips. 

Grissom stayed two days. During that time, he fed Sara, himself, and her landlady. For one who did not care much what he ate, he took great care to cook or order or buy prepared food that was better than his normal meals. Sara was called into work for a few hours, returning to find Grissom watching television. 

She laughed when she saw what was on. "Do you watch much of that?" 

"No, I don't. I can not believe what's on television now." Two forms moved around on a bed on the small screen. 

She peered at the screen. "It's worse at the movies." 

"Do we look like that when we are doing it?"

She giggled as she stripped off her working clothes. "I think so." She wrapped a robe around herself. "Mmmmm—four legs, two heads, two backsides, yep. We do look like that." She sat next to him and took the remote. "But I've never been one to want to watch." She flipped the channel. 

He laughed with her. "Neither have I. I personally like the old movies, where the kiss happens and its bells ringing, or a foghorn blowing, or a train passing. Much better to have an imagination." 

She leaned into his arms. "I had to concentrate on my work just to keep you out of my imagination." 

"That might be a problem." For the rest of the day, they did not have a problem and did not watch television. 

Early in the evening, they walked to a park for a free concert. Sara asked, "Do you have concerts like this in Vegas?" 

He shook his head. "I don't think so. Vegas is more of a pay-for music place. Remember Elvis, Liberace, and whoever else is on tour. That's Vegas." 

He left her the next morning. Again, refusing to let her drive him to the airport. It was easier to leave her in her own surroundings where she looked like she belonged. At the airport, she looked too much like a lost child being abandoned—not what he wanted to remember for days. 


	15. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Visit_

_I have missed you every minute. It is so quiet. Not quiet as in no noise. Last night we had this huge lightening storm. Totally awesome. We watched from windows at work. The weatherman said it was a once in a lifetime event. I hope so. Ended up with three d.b. from strikes. Unusual for us. Come back to see me. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: Work_

_I know I have more leave. I'll come next weekend if you can get off. We can go out of town. I'll pick you up. Eat. Rest. Vegas has money. We are getting new lab equipment. There is even talk of a new building. Brass has hinted that he might have two new positions. I want you in one! Please think about this._

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: I'm off!_

_I have officially taken the weekend off. I'll be waiting, my bag is packed. This is like a date! Oh, yea, we skipped that part. : )_

By mid-morning on Friday, she was waiting. He had called from the airport while getting a rental car. When asked where they were going, he said "It's a surprise." 

He picked her up in a red convertible, with a map of northern California on the seat. When she got in, he pointed to a spot, "That's where we're going. Four hours north" 

"Redwoods."

"Have you been there?"

She shook her head. "I'm ready. You look quite---different in this car." He smiled as they drove north.

Lunch was one stop where Grissom bought lunch and another hat. "Yours." He placed it on her head. "I have my own."

"Not the straw one?"

He grinned. "In my bag."

Nearly five hours after leaving, they left the primary highway for a blacktop winding two lane, driving underneath towering trees. Their speed dropped to a crawl as both stared open-mouthed at trees. He found the cottages where he had made reservations. Each one tucked back among trees with a secluded entrance. The only sounds were the wind blowing high in the treetops and even further away laughter from children playing. 

"How did you find this place?" she asked.

He lifted that eyebrow and gave her a half-smile. "I could let you wonder, but the truth is, I asked a travel agency."

The cottage was as perfect as that travel agent has described. Sara fell into the center of the bed rolling over on her belly.

"Let me stay here all weekend!"

He laughed. "No. This is a date weekend. We've going to do things. We will use this bed! I just don't want you telling our kids that we never dated."

She was quiet. He had stopped unpacking his bag, feeling the air leave the room. Wrong thing to say. Quickly, he reached for her as he stretched out on the bed.

"Sorry. We're on a date weekend. To have fun. To enjoy each other. No strings attached."

There was again a quick change in her and what he felt in the room. She raised her head to look at him, saying "You do make me happy. Happier than I've ever been. Sometimes I have a hard time believing this is happening to me."

He pulled her up. "Let's get outside. Walk before dark. Find something to eat."

Across the street they found a place to eat outside and watched several children collect wood for a fire pit. The children made trip after trip into the edge of the forest, stacking wood with an accuracy that showed some skill in fire building. Returning to their cottage, they sat on the porch, swinging slowly as twilight came.

Sara went inside for her jacket, finding the swing empty, seeing Grissom had joined the kids. He was crouched near the ground with the four children standing around him. A flashlight in one hand, his other hand held something which he passed to one of the boys. A little girl backed away then tentatively reached out. Sara realized she had never seen him around children; they had never had one conversation about kids. She heard him laugh as high pitched squeals irrupted and she knew he was talking about bugs. Walking near then, she heard one child repeat a scientific name of a bug.

She knelt beside him, "Having fun?"

Before he could answer, four voices made affirmative noises. One hand held out a twig with a small cocoon attached. 

"Look. A cocoon for a moth. I'm going to keep it until it flies away." With that the child was gone, running into another cottage.

The others remained with Grissom as he pulled bark from dead wood finding another bug and naming it before gently handing it over to one of the boys. This was a new Grissom—one that surprised her with his patience and simplistic explanations and brought a realization to her.

They stayed outside until parents showed up, children were gathered, and the fire started. As the fire died out, they returned to their cottage. Grissom hung an order for room service on the door before closing it.

Early light woke Sara. She slipped out of bed, found her robe, and moved to the porch with a book which is where Grissom found her an hour later. She had seen a little gift left for him on the edge of the porch.

"Come back to bed." 

She smiled. She had found the person she never thought would enter her life. A connection had been made between them from the first time they touched. She still felt his touch—a physical one that carried itself into an inner core of a part of her brain she could not dissect. She wanted him. Yet around her brain played another connection. One that replayed and repeated—she could not have this one thing, this one person she desired. She could not say the words he had already whispered. He knew and he returned. 

She smiled again and took his hand.

Breakfast arrived later. He planned this, she thought. At twenty-six, she had never been pursued by a man—not in the real sense. A few college boys, a couple of co-workers had taken her out; an even smaller number had made it to her bed and quickly lost interest. Sara studied too hard and worked too much to continue involvement with many people. Here was a man, 15 years her senior, met by accident of chance who kept returning to her.

"Are you day dreaming?" He handed her a cup of hot tea.

"I am." She took a muffin from the tray. He cut the omelet in half and put it on her plate. She said, "If I keep hanging around you, I'm going to get fat." He grinned as he put the entire bowl of fruit beside her.

"Eat." 

"You have a gift on the porch." 

With that he left her, going outside, and returning a few minutes later. "Is there a sewing kit anywhere?"

"Eat first. If I eat, you eat." He made a face, but sat down to eat. 


	16. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

After food was finished, Grissom found paper and pen, while Sara found two sewing kits. He took needles and pins out of each, returned to the porch and retrieved his 'gift'—several dead bugs and a moth. 

Sara showered while he wrote and arranged bugs and moth on paper. He left his work on a picnic table held down by sticks, sure that whoever left the insects would return. 

The rest of the day was spent driving, stopping occasionally to walk a well-worn path or trail. She read to him from a guidebook. They talked about trees. They talked about work. They found a diner for lunch, and later, a pizza place for dinner. She told him she always ate more with him than any other time. 

That night they sat on the porch of their cottage, the quietness of their surroundings broken only by the creaking of chains on the swing. Grissom's head found her lap, which, he thought was a first for him. Her fingers played with his hair, wrapping a curl around one finger then another. 

His paper with mounted and named bugs had disappeared. In its place were two river rocks. He gave one to Sara and the other went into his bag. 

"Grissom," Sara's voice was barely a whisper. "Do you think we could work together?"

He forced himself to keep his eyes closed. "Yes." 

"And stay like this?" 

One of those questions he had not expected. "Yes." He opened his eyes. "I think we would work together very well." He stopped to keep from saying too much. 

"I can not—I'm not ready to move. Not right now. But I would like to work with you." Her fingers never left his hair. 

That was enough. He rose from the swing and took her inside. It was as close to a promise as he would get from her. It was enough. For now. 

She made love to him that night. Smooth hands, long fingers touching those hidden passionate places. He had taught her well, and she had been an exceptional student. They whispered to each other tangled in the sheets in this cottage among the tall trees. Neither could know, or would have believed, how much time would pass before they would find themselves together again. For this night, in the edge of a redwood forest, their desire led them to unbelievable bliss that few couples find in decades of sharing a bed. This night would sustain their connection for what was to come. They laughed, they kissed, they touched with such furious desire that neither had a separate thought as the night hours passed. When sleep could not be postponed, their bodies appeared as two pieces of a puzzle locked together with curves and edges blending until an observant onlooker would have found it difficult to distinguish two parts. 

Later, she would think that the moon and stars had lined up in some secret power to bring this night to them. He would decide it was something else, logical, rational, explainable if one searched for an explanation. But then he also read Shakespeare. 

Grissom knew the bed was empty as soon as he stirred. There was no warmth next to him. He smiled as he pulled her pillow near his nose. If he couldn't have her body, he would have her scent. She did not sleep. He doubted if she ever slept more than five hours, even though she insisted she could sleep for twelve hours straight and never move. He had never observed that as actual fact. She did not eat much either. However, he did know she could eat more than she usually did; she just forgot. 

The door opened quietly as she backed into the room carrying a breakfast tray. 

"I'm awake. You can make noise." 

She stepped into the room and the door banged shut. "It's so quiet here." She brought the tray to the bed and handed him a coffee cup. "Coffee today." Her face turned pink. "After last night, we might need the caffeine before we start the drive back." 

"Move this." He indicated the tray. "We are not going anywhere so fast that I can't get you back to bed." He picked up her pillow. "All I had when I woke up was this." She had moved the tray, then took a running leap for the bed. "Jeans off." Were the last coherent words he said for some time. 

They laughed all the way back to her apartment. Driving down the interstate highway, she lost her hat in the wind which caused her to giggle for forty miles. He offered to buy her another hat; she asked to wear his. He did not want his hat to end up as so much straw underneath the wheels of an 18-wheeler, so he refused. 

When they were not laughing, she found music on the radio she liked so she could sing along. He told her to keep working because she could not sing for her supper. His comment helped her sing louder and more off-key. She blamed her euphoria on the convertible, the sun, the weekend, on him. 

She sang with Cher as they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. The words were not exactly a love song, but, as she pointed out, to sing along with Cher was proof that life was good. After all, she—Cher—was 52 years old and had the top song of the year. Grissom laughed again when he left her standing in her driveway, singing another Cher song with the line "If I could turn back time." He wasn't sure what the rest of the words were, or if she made them up just for him, but that's the line he remembered. 


	17. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18 (part 2, Chapter 3)**

_Emails: _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Back to work _

_I'm trying to adjust. Put myself in work instead of that bed in the redwoods. First 'date' was nice. Come back. We had a dead woman in a van last night. Stabbed multiple times. Pretty obvious someone killed her. Van parked at a shopping mall. Doesn't appear that she put up much of a fight. At least she wasn't in the trunk. I hate trunks. We don't find good stuff in a trunk. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT Quantico _

_We can talk more later. I am going to Quantico for three weeks. New equipment, new techniques. My big boss is determined to put this lab at the top. He has money. I will call later. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Quantico_

_You will have a good time! I am still working the db in the van. Fingerprints, only from victim and family. Stabbed over 30 times. How can anyone be so angry? This is a weird one. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: Evidence_

_Follow your evidence. No fingerprints other than family. What does the family say? A 60 year old woman does not get killed because she is shopping. I leave tomorrow. I will miss you more because of distance. For three weeks. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Evidence_

_You are right. All the photos, interviews. One thing kept resurfacing. The youngest son is getting married. Everyone said this. No one seemed to be real sad that the woman was dead. You can tell. One of the relatives made the statement that everyone could be happy now. I've said all along that someone she knew killed her, but everyone had an alibi. Just too perfect. I also told the detectives that no 60 year old woman would park her van at the edge of the parking lot when lots of spaces were empty near the door! The detective asked her husband why he killed his wife and all of a sudden, it's over. Husband did it. Woman was angry about who the son was going to marry. The husband turned on her, pulled an old knife out of a toolbox and killed her in the garage. Drove her to the mall and walked six miles back home. Case closed. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Stay safe_

_I know you are in Quantico now. I miss you deeply, selfishly (is that a word?) Do come back to me. I promise not to sing with Cher again!_

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: Quantico_

_I am teaching some, which I enjoy. I am learning lots, but this is not my way of doing things. Too much equipment. Too many computers—great tool, but it is just that. Crime is not about putting evidence in a slot and waiting for the solution to be spit out. It would be like a hospital with no nurses. Give me a good nurse! Give me a smart criminalist! DNA is exciting. Hundreds of people in prison will be set free, and hopefully, a few hundred in prison because of DNA. I hate this time difference. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Sorry_

_Our calls seem to cross. My landlady, Barb, is sick. I am taking her to her doctor later. Work is so backed up. If I'm not at home, call work. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: Where are you?_

_How is Barb? Nothing serious, I hope. Back to this learning centered situation, where everyone is way to serious. What am I doing here? I like my bugs. I like visiting my girl. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF  
SUBJECT: Where are you? _

_Three days and no email? I've gotten your messages. These are not messages, Sara, call me. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: This is hard_

_I am so sorry. There are good treatments. Call me, please. Are you staying with Barb? _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Home and work_

_I am back at work. Treatments have started, but she isn't doing well. Age is the primary problem. Her cousins came in for the weekend, two little old ladies who are older than Barb. She really wants to come home, not stay in the hospital. Griss, she wants to make me her medical surrogate. I am not sure I can do this. My boss has pulled me from the field. This is a good thing. He knows about Barb. At least I am near a phone. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: I'll see you today_

_I am flying in today. I hope you get this. I've tried home, work, Barb's phone, no answer. _

Grissom arrived at same quiet driveway, amazed that in the middle of this major metropolitan city a neighborhood could be so quiet at mid-day. The house looked exactly the same as the first time he had walked into the driveway except there was a hurried abandonment to it. Two newspapers lay at the edge of the driveway. He picked up both, one for today and one for yesterday. 

He tried both gate bells, hearing nothing. He was not sure either bell worked. He never heard a sound from either. Windows were shaded and closed. Deciding his best bet was a telephone, he walked two blocks before finding a working phone and called Sara's work. He talked to three people before getting her boss. 

"Hey, Dr. Grissom. Sara said you might call. She's at the hospital with her friend." At least he knew where to find her now. 

Grissom called another taxi and provided the name of the hospital; at least it was in the same part of the city. 

Hospitals were always confusing to him. He got off the elevator to find four hallways and multiple signs with room numbers and arrows pointing in different directions. Most people thought he had a difficult job. He would take his job any day over dealing with the living, the hope, the hopeless, the waiting, the end. 

He found the right corridor. Bright outside light at the end of the hallway outlined the shape of the woman he knew he would recognize anywhere. Too thin, he thought. A man in a white coast was talking to her. He turned to go, Sara turned at the same time, not toward him, but to the window. As Grissom walked toward her, she went from upright to crumpling to the floor, appearing as a puppet when its strings had been cut. Grissom ran, shouting for help. 

He got to her first, lifting her head, touching her face. "Sara, Sara." 

The doctor and a nurse arrived immediately. The nurse popped an ammonia capsule under Sara's nose which brought her around. Her eyelids fluttered a few times before she recognized the face in front of hers. 

"Grissom." 

Her head fell back against his arm and her eyes rolled. Another ammonia capsule popped. The doctor was saying her name. 

"She's with Miss Ross. Can we get her to a bed?"

Grissom picked her up. The nurse held Sara's arm. "She gave platelets this morning." 

Grissom's face showed his confusing. The nurse explained, "She's been the donor for Miss Ross." She nodded to the other bed as she pulled the privacy curtain. Grissom got a quick glance at the sleeping patient. "Sara's been staying with her." 

Sara was waking up as the doctor and nurse checked vital signs. "Grissom." 

"I'm here." He held her hand. 

"I thought I was dreaming." 

The doctor stepped away from the bedside. "Look like you are ok. You need to rest. Eat. Are you family?" He looked at Grissom with his last question. 

Quickly, Grissom said "yes" and noticed Sara smile. 

"She's given platelets earlier today. Just see she eats, gets some rest. She'll be fine." He reached over and patted her leg. "We don't want to lose a good donor." And he was gone. 

The nurse encouraged Sara to remain in bed for another few minutes, promising to bring food. As soon as the nurse left, Sara was sitting up in bed. 

"When did you get here?" she asked. 

"Just in time to see you faint." He brushed her hair back from her face. "You need to take care of yourself." 

"I know. Things just got a little hectic today." She blinked back tears. "Thanks for coming." Tears spilled from her eyes. 

"Tell me."

Wiping her eyes, she moved from the bed. "Not in here. She's sleeping." 

Grissom wrapped an arm around her to steady her walk. He moved two chairs to the hallway, put her in one and left to find promised food. A few minutes later, he was handing her a spoon and pudding. Sara related the prognosis of her friend, the need for platelet transfusions, her platelets were a good match, the complications of leukemia in an elderly person. 

"I've learned more than I ever wanted to know." She said as she finished her description of the past few weeks. Grissom sat quietly, letting her talk. 

"What can I do?"

"Nothing. That's what the doctor said earlier. She can be made 'comfortable', whatever that means. He is writing an order for hospice services. I'm going to take her home." 

"Sara, you don't have to do this." 

Her eyes flashed. "Yes, I do. She helped me when no one else did. She wants to go home." 

"What can I do?" he asked again. 

She tightened her grip on his hand. "Give me some time. I've talked to my boss. I can take sick leave." She managed a smile. "We have a very liberal sick leave policy in the great city of San Francisco." 

He took her in his arms and felt her tears against his neck. He felt a deep sigh and could sense a change in her body as she pulled away. 

"I'm always crying around you." 

"No, you're not." He grinned. Seems I remember someone singing along with Cher the last time I was here." 

She leaned back into his shoulder so he felt her smile before she spoke. "I've turned back time. We watch Esther Williams—that's the swimming actress, and Humphrey Bogart, and Gene Kelly, and Grace Kelly. There may be another Kelly in there." 

They continued to sit in the hallway and talk. He talked about Quantico. Nurses cam to check on the patient as well as Sara. Grissom located the cafeteria and brought more food to her. Late in the night, she suggested he fly home. 

"I hate to leave you." 

"There is nothing you can do. Go home. Put all that Quantico knowledge to work. Let me do this." 

"Will you take care of yourself? Eat? Call me?"

"I promise." 

"She's a very lucky woman to have you." 

"I've been the lucky one. She never judged me." 

He left her there in the hospital, sitting by her friend." 

_A/N: Thank you for all the comments! Happy Spring!_


	18. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

_Emails: _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: At home_

_Things have been much easier at home. Barb is so much more comfortable, or says she is. I am eating. Promise. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Sleep_

_Up all night. Finally, we got some sleep today. I am trying to get her to eat more, the stuff in the can if it's cold and with a straw. Ensure, the adult nutritional supplement, everything you need to stay alive. The smell of it makes me ill. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Better today_

_Thanks for calling. We actually sat outside today. I told her about the redwoods. She finds it hard to believe that I have a bug guy friend. Can I call you a boyfriend? She knows how I hate bugs. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF  
SUBJECT: Boyfriend?_

_Yes, you can all me anything, even Gilbert. Call me at your convenience. I will come. I don't want to intrude. Do you need anything? _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Good day_

_Life is now 'good' or 'bad', we drove to the coast today. We laughed. Ate mac and cheese. I wished you were here. But we never know if a day is going to be good or bad. Her cousins came again. The old have a different way of looking at death. They talk freely about who has 'passed' and about funerals. Did you know there are happy funerals and sad funerals? I don't mean to sound morbid. This has been a good day. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Visit_

_There is no reason to come. Wait. I cook, clean, give meds, do it all again. My cooking menu is mac and cheese, baked potatoes, rice, jello, popsicles, and Ensure. I never want to see green jello again. Barb is sinking into her bed, disappearing before my eyes. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Phone calls_

_I do appreciate hearing your voice. I really do. Please continue to leave a message. If I don't pick up, it is because I can't right then. I am doing some official work—my boss brought a few cases for me to review. He knows I would go bonkers as a nurse or a cook! We go tomorrow for another platelet transfusion. I know it will not cure her, but she seems to feel better afterwards. I am eating! _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: Opposite worlds_

_You are awake while I try to sleep. Your emails come while I am at work. Just make contact. I want to hear your voice. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Housing_

_We have talked about my housing situation, as you named it. The cousins are aware of Barb's wishes. I'm fine with these arrangements. I stay with Barb most of the time now. It's just easier. I brought my hand model to show Barb. She thinks it is very nice. We played 'put rings on the fingers'—she has lots of rings. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: You_

_I can never talk to you long enough. Has our murder case made your news? Rich guy gets killed in his penthouse. Mob hit? Gun for hire? Lots of rumors, trophy wife is devastated. Stay tuned for the next chapter. I smiled about the hand. Call me, please. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: We are #2!_

_Accreditation passed with commendations. We are the best. Number 2. Quantico rated higher. They have federal dollars. We have casinos. I want to see you. Just for a few hours. Can I slip in? I will not take you away from the house. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Come_

_I can not promise. Most days are very quiet. Barb sleeps a lot. I would like to see you. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Today_

_I do appreciate your calls. Barb was very lucid last night. She talked a long time, asking about you. How did I like Vegas? She laughed about the migraine weekend. Not much longer. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: _

_You are an amazing person. I remember the way you took care of me. I will visit any time. You do need company. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Funeral _

_Back from the cemetery. Barb passed very quietly. Her cousins were here. Four generations of her family are buried in the same cemetery. Amazing, isn't it. Her cousins are staying for several days, so I am busy. Them I return to work. _

_From: SarainSF_

_To: BugGuy_

_Subject: Visit_

_I am exhausted. Come when you can. Three months is a long time without Grissom. Emails and phone calls are good, but nothing like having you. : ) I think that's the first smile in weeks. _

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: Second date_

_Rest. Be dressed for breakfast. You need sunshine. We will find it. _

"Move to Vegas." They lay on a blanket spread out in the sun. This was a hard sell and he knew it. 

"I need to work." 

"You can work there. With me." 

She elbowed him. "I need gainful employment." She rolled on her stomach playing with the edge of the blanket. 

"Say you will come, at least for an interview." 

"I'm thinking. I'm not sure I'm ready to leave." 

"Your boss is retiring in a few months. Live with me." 

She gave him a wide-eyed look. "I like my work. I'm not sure I can live with you and those creepy bugs." 

Sara heard a deep rumble in his chest. She laughed when he said, "We can work something out." 

"We do pretty well in this situation." She smiled at him. "A commuting relationship." 

"Who else have you seen in the past year? In 18 months?"

"No one. Only you." 

"I'll give you space. Get your own place. You would enjoy working in Vegas." 

"I can't, not yet." 

"I want you near me, every day." 

She smiled. It was so easy to smile. He made life sound so easy. "I am thinking about it." She rolled over finding a place for her head against his shoulder. 

"You are a complicated woman, Sara Sidle." 

She laughed. "Nothing is ever simple." 

_Email_: 

_FROM: BugGuy_

_TO: SarainSF_

_SUBJECT: Come_

_I will take off any time you can come. Fly. Please. _

He was waiting for her when she walked out of the terminal, leaning against his car and smiling, giving a wave to the policeman on the curb. She threw her bag in the back seat. 

"We're taking a drive. Out to see the stars." 

"Stars" she asked. 

"Best place in the world. Just out of town. You will not believe your eyes." 

Some kind of meteor shower occurring once in a life time. There were others gathered at the same place where mountains shut out the city lights so this spectacular light show could be appreciated. By the time they got there, people were lined along the highway, watching. He helped her to sit on the hood of his car, both leaning against the windshield to see the sky. 

"Move here, Sara." His arm was around her as the sky became a mass of bright lights streaking across from horizon to horizon. 

"I'm thinking about it." She said as she smiled at him. She really was thinking about moving. "But I need to work. Most of the time I like what I do. I think I really make a difference." 

"You can make a difference here. With me." 

"That does weigh in." 

He kissed her. 

"Hey! You are missing the show!" She giggled. 

"I am. I think it's time to go home." 

They were undressing each other before she was out of the car. His remark was "Who had the idea of going to see a meteor shower?" They both laughed as he opened the door. 

Inside, a cell phone was ringing as well as a red light blinked on his answering machine. "I hate these things." He picked it up. "I'm supposed to answer the darn thing even when I'm off." He pressed a button. "Grissom."

Sara listened to one side of his conversation, while working each button on his shirt. His intake of air let her know that he knew what she was doing. The phone stayed at his ear even as his hand found her. 

"Jim, I'm off. I've got plans. Can't you get someone else?" 

He groaned. Either from her hands or from the conversation she could not hear. 

"Give me an hour." He closed the phone. "I can not believe this. I can not believe this." He said it twice before pulling her to the bedroom. "One hour, the dead can wait. But I can't." 

She pulled her shirt over her head and his shirt hit the floor. "I'll wait." Her voice moved him even faster to remove her shoes and tackle her jeans. 

"You can wait, but I can't." He was undressing, but in the wrong order. She reached for his shoes as he struggled to get out of his pants. "I can not believe this." 

In rapid order, they were undressed and in his bed, almost, before he wrapped arms around her pulling her into a passionate kiss, touching lips, her tongue, feeling the smooth surface of her skin against his. 

"Too long." 

Their bodies touched. Absence and abstinence. She had not forgotten and neither had he. 

"I need to go. For a while." 

"I'll wait. Go take care of the dead." 

"It's teenagers on the highway. It may take some time."

"I'll wait. Come back to me." 

Twelve hours she waited. He called twice, each time saying just a little longer. Sara napped, read his journals, took a walk, and found a grocery store. She filled two bags and started back when Grissom pulled beside her. 

"Looks like you need a ride." 

She kept walking, giving him a grin when she said, "I got stood up, abandoned by my guy. Might need to find a new one." 

"Get in," he opened the door. He made room on the seat. 

"Nice kit." She said as he moved a case to the back seat. 

"Move here. You get one." 

She smiled. He made it sound so easy. 

_A/N: Two more chapters! Thanks so much for reading, making comments. Came up with this from watching the first season when Sara and Grissom seemed very 'familiar' with each other! We are have several other ideas we are working on. Thanks again. _


	19. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

She brought one suitcase. A personal favor. Because a new girl had been shot, doing routine work, left alone. He was promoted—battlefield promotion, he called it. When she found him throwing dummies, he laughed and said her name. Why did she think this would be difficult? 

The girl died. His guy was placing bets. Sara was never sure what happened afterwards, but no one was fired and she was hired. Overnight, she said she would move. She stayed with Grissom.

The others were curious—who was she, how had Grissom gotten her to come so quickly. At work they were careful, no touching, no recognition that they shared a bed. Catherine was suspicious, asked every day if Sara had found an apartment. 

She and Grissom worked a kidnapping where they found the woman buried alive. He loved his work and being with her at work. Sara found an apartment. She was seldom there. Her suitcase stayed at Grissom's; he liked having her in his house; she gave him a reason to leave work. 

They found it easy to work together. He went back to San Francisco to help her pack and move. She painted over her purple walls. It was there she told him of her gift from Barb, one third of the house belonged to her. She signed over her share to the two cousins. Without hesitation, she cut her ties with San Francisco. 

Grissom had not asked nor sought this promotion. Once presented, he knew he wanted it. He could lead, take this team to the top, be the best in Las Vegas. He said all this to Sara. She understood. They were professionals at work, careful, cautious, and methodical. Sara was determined to be the best of his team. 

Until one night, a single sheet of paper appeared on his desk, copied from the employee handbook, one paragraph highlighted in yellow. 

Brass sat across the desk. "You have to do something." 

Grissom's hand passed across his face. "I don't know what to do." 

Brass grunted, leaning forward, "You are going to get her fired. You will be demoted. Move her to day or swing. She can have another supervisor." 

"Who knows?"

"There is talk. No body knows anything, but for how long?" He lifted his hands. "I like her. She's a good CSI, a hard worker. I—I'm trying to be a friend here." 

Grissom nodded his head. "I know." He stood to leave, anguish on his face, the paper in his hand. 

He took it home. Sara found him waiting for her, sitting at the table. She read the paragraph. 

"Jim gave this to me—I did not even know it was in there." 

"I can not do this." He whispered as his hand lay on the paper. 

Sara took the chair next to him. "I can move to another shift, have another supervisor."

He shook his head. "No, I brought you here to work with me. We can figure something out." 

She took his hand; without saying a word, led him to his bedroom. She kissed him as she undressed him, pulling her own clothes off, leaving everything in an untidy trail. Together, they showered, saying little with their voice, saying much with their actions. He forgot what was on the table as she made love to him. Her hands touched him; her lips followed. When sleep finally came, she held him against her as he relaxed and drifted into a dreamless slumber. While he slept, she slipped from his bed, awake and determined. 

She was back in bed when he woke enough to reach for her. She kissed him quickly and lightly, they both slept. 

He knew she was unusually quiet and blamed it on the paper left on the table. He turned in time to see her close her suitcase. "What are you doing?" he asked. 

Her arm stretched out to stop him. "I'm going to my apartment. I never meant to live with you—this was only temporary." He pulled her into his arms, but her fingers touched his lips. "Please don't say anything." Her voice broke, but she continued. "I can do this. It is your time. I'm not leaving but I will not jeopardize your career. I can not put what you have worked for at risk." 

"How can I do this?" A look of disbelief was on his face. 

"You don't have to. I came here to be with you. You need to do this. Be the supervisor." 

"How can you do this?"

She gently caressed his face. "You need this. Your entire career has led to this point. Be a good supervisor. I will not stand in your way. I will not talk about us. There will come a time—you will think of something." Tears pooled in her brown eyes. 

"I want you to be happy." 

"You know what makes me happy." She held him in a tight embrace, her lips at his ear, as she whispered, "I will wait." 

Quietly, she left him taking all the things she had brought into his house. 

_A/N: Thank you for all your comments! One more chapter. _


	20. Chapter 21

S took the chair next to him

**Chapter 21**

Grissom could not stay away from her; at times nothing could stop him from arriving at her door. She would open it and smile, knowing he was there for a short time, never to wake in her bed, never to talk. He felt like a cheating husband—his job was his wife

Guilt would follow him around for days afterwards. He would assign her to work with others, missing her smile, her touch, her laugh. He would hand out assignments and have her work with him. She would smile, tell a joke, make him ache with desire. 

They clashed at work. Her compassion went to victims, especially the few who survived. She put herself in harm's way even when he objected. 

He became obsessed with work; the more he worked the less time he had to remember. He crowded his brain with cases, meetings, facts, figures, and details to keep from thinking of her. Days would slip by and he could avoid being in the same room. He stopped going to her door. She would appear in his office; her eyes searching for him, for recognition, for memories. 

He masked his face, hid his feelings; convinced himself he could not be her lover because he was her supervisor—most of the time. The brush of her hand, a turn of her head, a smile, the smell of her hair and he remembered. 

As days turned to weeks, then months, he realized something had changed. He disliked her independence. He refused to tell her of his hearing loss. He gave her difficult assignments. He called her when she did take a day off. She said she was resigning. She rarely smiled. She worked too much, every day. Her eyes' watching him was more than he could endure. Where there had been happiness he saw pools of shaded darkness in her sad face. He told her to get a life, but could not bring himself to say "without me." 

He brought her to Vegas, not for this. Those days in San Francisco became a distant memory. Yet he knew those memories were real. Too often he woke from dreams of the giggly, laughing girl he had begged to come here. Now, she was here, waiting, waiting for him to take a risk. For her. 

A murdered girl who looked like Sara. He wanted to protect her, keep her away from this dead look-alike. Yet he had to work with her, keep her close. He wanted her to smile, to laugh, to love him. Instead, he pushed her away, never knowing she had heard him say words to Lurie. He never knew how deeply it hurt her to hear him say he could not take a risk. Weeks passed and Sara lashed out; not to him, but to others. Everyone noticed; he pretended nothing was wrong. 

Sara spiraled. She wondered how life ever got so crazy, remembering those days and nights in San Francisco. She cried herself to sleep. Her private thoughts played again and again—why had she moved, did she do something wrong, was she too tired; he did not love her as he said he did. She knew too well that life was unfair and unpredictable. Work was all she had, and Grissom was work, his words, his half-smile, kept her there. 

She laughed with Greg. She dated Hank. She learned to drink with Nick and Warrick. She talked about work; never her life--there was no life. She stopped crying. One day she realized that it took more than one beer to get to sleep. Brass knew. He recognized the signs. 

She asked him to go to dinner and he refused. She left him unable to sleep, unable to work. He drove to her apartment and watched her door, willing her to open it. As he tried to sleep, the words of her boss in San Francisco came back to him, "a compassionate soul, she smiles and the world is a better place." He remembered the end of that conversation, "Even if it's wrong, goes against everything you've done, but if you want her to be happy, do it." How could he forget? 

Grissom got the call early one morning, took her home—his home. He fed her, he held her until she slept. When she woke, he talked, more than he had ever talked to her, or to anyone else in years. He kept nothing back. By the time his words were exhausted, she was holding him, her wonderful hands in his hair. He had always loved her. She was worth the risk. She had waited on him. 

More weeks would pass before a stressful case, an angry blow-up with Catherine and Ecklie, leading to her suspension would open her secrets to him. He already knew about her parents; he knew where her mother lived. That night he loved her, slowly, passionately, finally asking her to love him. She already did; she had for years. 

She moved in so gradually that when each realized it had happened, they could not stop smiling. His bugs moved out. He got her a dog. She was happy. She wanted a private life, one that was not the topic of office gossip; he agreed. He told one person, she told no one. 

Sara understood his need to get away, to take the sabbatical. It might open a door for a change; he needed to find out. She worked, walked their dog, and waited. He wrote her a letter he never mailed. Weeks later when he finally gave it to her, she pulled him into their bed and loved him. She made him read it to her as those hands he loved so much caressed his face, her fingers touching his lips as he read, a look of contentment on her face. 

At work, they were careful. She refused to ask for another supervisor or another shift. He wanted her near him; he wanted to see her smile, to smell her hair, to know she was waiting for him. They were happy. 

It was he who caressed her arm, who wiped her tears, who touched her in the way of intimate lovers, who put their happiness and her life in a heartrending, near-tragic catastrophe setting in motion a concatenation of events which would take her away. 

Grissom had been so happy and content to have her alive and with him that he had missed or ignored her own pensive sadness. Afterwards, he realized his proposal had made her smile more than she had in weeks. She left him in the middle of the night leaving a letter telling him in writing what she had never said with her voice. They talked; she needed closure for a new beginning. Sara would return. He knew she would. She had waited for him; he would wait for her.

_A/N: Thanks to all for getting to our final chapter. This is not "The End"—good ideas keep popping up to help fill in the gaps, so stay tuned for the next story. _


End file.
